


In the Month of AUgust

by Rizobact



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: (Mostly) Unrelated Short Fics, Additional Tags/Warnings/etc in Each Chapter, Gen, M/M, au yeah august
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-06-20 04:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 43,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact
Summary: A collection of short AU ficlets featuring Prowl and Jazz - each day a different way for them to be together.





	1. Soulmates/Sparkmates

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw [ladydagon76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydragon76/pseuds/ladydragon76) posting about an [AU prompt calendar](http://ladydragon76.tumblr.com/post/175232796115/au-yeah-august) (originally for Miraculous Ladybug) that she was modifying for Transformers, told [dragonofdispair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair) about it, and now... here I am doing it :p dragonofdispair and I are working off our [own variant](https://rizobact.tumblr.com/post/176529648626/in-the-month-of-august) of the calendar, but it's still 31 AUs, one for each day of the month. Let's get this party started!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz might want to find his sparkmate, but there's more to life than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

“What do you mean you’re not looking?”

“How can you say that?!”

“Do you want to be alone forever?”

This. This was why Jazz didn’t like it when this subject came up. “Look, guys, I appreciate your concern,” he said, trying not to sigh too obviously. They’d only misinterpret his frustration. “It’s not that I’m  _ not  _ looking, I’m just not  _ looking, _ you know?”

Tracks fixed him with a look across the table. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Finding your sparkmate is the best thing in the world.”

“Yeah!” Bumblebee agreed brightly. “That’s why I want to find mine as soon as possible! Everything’s better once you find the other half of your spark.”

“It’s true,” Nautica said, brandishing her stylus. “There’s scientific proof that bonded pairs have heightened awareness and senses.”

“And that’s great,” Jazz said. “I’m not  _ against  _ finding my sparkmate. I’m just not in any rush, either.”

“But why not?” Bumblebee asked, all-too-familiar confusion in his optics. “Why wouldn’t you want to spend as much time with your sparkmate as possible?”

“Because if I spent all my time and energy looking for my sparkmate, I’d miss out on everything else,” Jazz said, not expecting them to understand. “I don’t like the idea that life’s not worth living without your sparkmate, because it’s just not true. You don’t need heightened senses or the presence of that one special someone to appreciate the world or the people around you.”

“Maybe not,” Nautica said, “but why wouldn’t you want them when it’s possible to have them?”

“Sounds like you’re just trying to sound noble about deliberately handicapping yourself,” Tracks snorted. 

That angle again. Jazz’s plating pulled in tight, closing him off. “I’m really not,” he said, pushing back his chair to stand. “But I’m not going to waste my time explaining myself to people who don’t want to listen. Excuse me.” Then, taking advantage of the moment of stunned silence, he left. 

He’d almost made it out of the room when he heard someone running after him. “Jazz! Wait,” Bumblebee said, his short legs working so he could catch up. “I’m sorry. Please don’t go away mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Jazz said, this time not bothering to hide the sigh. “It’s just… I’m not in the mood for this conversation today.”

“Because of what Tracks said?” 

“Because it’s always the same thing.” Bumblebee was walking beside him now, determinedly following him out into the hall, so Jazz went ahead and elaborated. “Everyone always tries to convince me I’m wrong, and I’m tired of being told I’m wasting my time. Or worse, being accused of wasting my sparkmate’s time. When I say I’m not looking, that doesn’t mean I’m hiding or trying to avoid them altogether.” Which some people actually did, so it wasn’t like those assumptions came out of nowhere, but still. “But I’m not going to pass up a night out with my friends because I could be searching for my sparkmate instead. I’m not going to turn down a chance to visit Crystal City because I’ve already been there and I’m more likely to find my sparkmate somewhere I haven’t been yet. And I’m not going to feel sorry for myself for ‘not really living’ until I find them. Not having your sparkmate doesn’t make you handicapped.”

“But if you had any other handicap— I just want to understand,” Bumblebee said, hands going up quickly at Jazz’s frown. “I’m not saying not having your sparkmate  _ is  _ a handicap, but if you were, I don’t know, unable to transform or something, you’d do something about it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh?” A wry smile spread across Jazz’s face. “And what if, when I went to a medic, they said my t-cog couldn’t be fixed?”

“Then you could get a scooter or something,” Bumblebee said. “It wouldn’t mean you had to walk everywhere.”

“Hmm. So not finding my sparkmate means I’m choosing to walk everywhere when I could be driving?”

“Kind… of?” To his credit, Bumblebee seemed to sense there was something wrong with the analogy. “Is that bad?”

“Only if you think the only worthwhile way to get anywhere is driving.” Jazz gestured down to their feet. “We’re walking right now, aren’t we?”

“Because we’re indoors,” Bumblebee said. “And we’re not going very far. If we were going to the gardens, we’d drive there.”

“We  _ could  _ drive there,” Jazz said, emphasizing the word. “But we could also walk. It would take longer, sure, but we’d still get there.”

“We’d have less time there before they closed.”

“Yes. We would.” It wasn’t like Jazz was unaware of the consequences of his actions. But that was just it; he was aware, and it was a conscious decision. “And if you want to drive to the garden so you can spend more time there, that’s your choice. Just like if I want to walk, to take in the city skyline instead of watching the road, to chat with the other pedestrians along the way and maybe stop for a snack at that amazing cafe under the overpass, that’s my choice. Is it too much to ask that people respect it, rather than telling me I’m an idiot for not driving?”

“Oh.” Bumblebee’s optics brightened with comprehension, then dimmed again with sadness. “But what if you never make it to the garden?”

Jazz shrugged. “Not everyone does. Not even the ones who try to get there by driving.” Sometimes people tried to drive too fast and wound up crashing and burning. “I hope that I make it. But like I said: I’m not in a rush.”

They walked together in silence as Bumblebee thought that over. Jazz saw him absently rubbing his thumb over the dull half-glyph on his wrist, the one that would light up in completion when he found his sparkmate. 

After a long, quiet moment, he looked up and asked, “Is it okay if I walk with you for a while?”

Jazz smiled. “Absolutely. How about we head for the gardens?”

“Only if we can stop under the overpass on the way,” Bumblebee grinned. “They really do make the best oilcakes in town. Plus, I’ve heard their new barista’s really good.”

“Yeah?” Jazz held the door open for Bee and they stepped outside into the sun. “What’s his name?”

“Wheeljack said his name was Prowl.”

.

.

.

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pfft, so already right out the gate I wrote something that has a continuation later in another AU. Gee, I wonder if you can guess which one... I swear most of these will be self contained!
> 
> EDIT: Now continues in [Coffeeshop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36616644)


	2. College

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School can be stressful. Sometimes the right person can make all the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Mentions of strained family relationships/stressful living conditions (minor)

He hadn’t meant to leave the assignment to the last minute. Working right down to the wire was Jazz’s thing, not Prowl’s; a fact said mech was all too willing to point out when Prowl told him he needed to be left alone.

“Come on, you’re not still working on that paper, are you? No way! I finished that thing hours ago.” Completely ignoring Prowl’s request, Jazz flopped down in the seat next to him. “What’s the world coming to when I finish before you?”

“Ah, yes, how silly of me. I forgot that was one of the signs of the apocalypse,” Prowl said, attempting dry humor to mask his exhaustion and embarrassment. “Please, for the sake of the planet, leave me alone so I can right this terrible wrong.”

“Can’t you come back after dinner and finish it?”

“No.” Primus, he wished. “I’m already worried I won’t have it done in time as it is.”

“Yeesh, what did you do? Wait till this morning to get started?”

Prowl didn’t answer. He let his silence, and the stiff tapping of his fingers on the keyboard, speak for itself.

“Wait. You really  _ didn’t  _ start it until this morning? We’ve had all week to work on it!” Jazz leaned forward, field prickling with concern. “Prowl, what happened?”

“…It’s a long story,” Prowl said after a long pause. “One I don’t have time to get into right now. I need to—”

“—finish your paper, yeah, yeah. I get it.” With obvious reluctance, Jazz got to his feet, resting a hand briefly on Prowl’s shoulder. “Don’t work so hard you forget to get some sleep.”

“I won’t.” Prowl didn’t expect to be done until it was too late to be worth driving home, but he figured he’d still get  _ some  _ sleep, even if it was only a nap in one of the lumpy chairs in the boilerhouse lounge. 

Right about now he wished he’d applied to live in the dorms like Jazz instead of commuting to save money. Then he’d have had somewhere comfortable to crash for a few hours, not to mention he wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.

As soon as Jazz was gone, Prowl buckled down and got to work. He quickly lost track of time, going back and forth between primary sources and supplementary materials to find evidence to support his conclusion. It would have been easier if he’d read them all ahead of time, but since he hadn’t been able to, he was stuck skimming them for talking points and hoping he wasn’t taking anything completely out of context.

He huffed a short, derisive laugh at the thought. Would it even matter if he did? It hadn’t taken long to figure out that for this class, quality was a poor second to quantity when it came to quotes. The professor handed out higher grades to the students who “proved” how much “effort” they’d put into their papers by looking at how “well-researched” they were, as judged by the number of citations they used. It made writing papers for him feel like an exercise in futility, since the way to get top marks wasn’t to analyze the material and come up with an original idea, but to comb through as much existing academia as possible and regurgitate a summary of other people’s ideas.

Prowl’s resentment mounted as the night wore on, his chronometer ticking down closer and closer to closing time. His processor throbbed, and as he checked his page count for the thirty seventh time only to discover he was still two pages short of the required minimum for the assignment, he had to face the reality that he wasn’t going to finish before the librarian came around to kick him out. 

Resigned to the fact that he would have to cut his nap short so he could come back when the library opened again in the morning for additional sources to pad out his paper before going to class, he almost walked right into the mech waiting on the steps outside. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see— Jazz?”

“Was afraid you were still in there,” Jazz said, waving off his apology. “You look awful.”

How fitting. He felt awful too. “I was just going to get something to eat.”

“Probably a good idea, though you won’t have many options at this hour. Come on,” Jazz grabbed his hand, “let’s go back to my room. I’ve got plenty of snacks.”

“I can’t,” Prowl protested, but didn’t pull his hand back. “You’re not allowed to have guests overnight.”

“Really? Someone ought to put up a bulletin or something then, because we have overnight guests all the time.”

Of course Prowl knew people broke that rule. He wasn’t stupid. He just didn’t like the idea of breaking it himself. “I can’t,” he said again. “Your roommate will complain.”

“My roommate can pick his stuff up off the lawn if he complains,” Jazz said harshly, taking Prowl aback. “There’s no way I’m letting you sleep in those boilerhouse chairs. Anyway he left early for the weekend, so you don’t have to worry about him.”

“Jazz—”

“No. You’re staying with me tonight and that’s final.” Prowl felt Jazz squeeze his hand, that concern back in his field. “Whatever that long story is, I’d still like to hear it.”

Prowl wasn’t sure he wanted to share it. If it had been anyone else… But this was Jazz. Jazz, who did crazy things like waiting for him outside the library in the middle of the night. Jazz, who already knew things at were difficult at home for him. Who always sent him at least one friendly message even on the days he didn’t come to campus, and who was now offering him a safe, supportive place to spend the night. “I don’t want to bother you,” he evaded, allowing Jazz to continue leading him up to his dorm. 

“You’re not a bother, Prowl. Not to me.” 

Jazz let go of his hand just long enough to unlock the door, then took it again to draw him inside and up the flight of stairs to his room. Just as he’d said, his roommate (and his roommate’s overnight bag) were nowhere to be found.

“Now,” Jazz said, settling on the berth and handing Prowl an energy bar. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Prowl turned the bar over in his hands, listening to the faint rustle of the wrapper. “It’s not really anything new,” he said. “Which I guess means it’s not all that long a story after all.”

“But…?” 

That look on Jazz’s face, the one that said he wanted to hear what Prowl had to say and actually cared how he felt, broke the dam on his words. “But I’m tired of being pressured about grad school. The college sent out a letter about applying and my creators have been waving it in my face all week, saying that I can’t miss this opportunity and that all my professors have told them I’d be perfect for it and I don’t want to disappoint everyone’s expectations for me, do I?”

“You’d be disappointing your own expectations for yourself if you gave in to them,” Jazz said, taking Prowl’s hands to stop him from mangling the energy bar beyond recognition. He unwrapped a fresh one and handed it to him, and Prowl bit into it gratefully. He was hungrier than he’d realized. “And you’d be making yourself miserable.”

“They don’t care if I’m miserable,” Prowl said, well, miserably. “They only care about whether or not I’m ‘wasting my processor’. So of course they spent all week harassing me and making it impossible to actually use my processor at all.” 

“I mean, you’d have trouble getting into grad school if you flunked a few classes,” Jazz said, grinning when Prowl glared at him. “What? You’d still have next term to make up for it before you graduate.”

“I’m not going to deliberately fail my classes to get out of grad school,” Prowl huffed, the sound coming out more tired than irritated. “Though I probably won’t get a very good grade on this paper. I still haven’t finished it, but by the time they kicked me out of the library I was struggling to remember the beginning of a sentence by the time I reached the end of it.”

“Here.” Another energy bar appeared in his hands. “How much time do you think you need to finish it?”

“Another hour? Maybe two?” It still wouldn’t be the best paper he’d ever written, but it would be done. “Why?”

“Because,” Jazz said, reaching for the alarm clock beside the berth, “I’m going to set this so we have time to go to breakfast while you steal some quotes from my paper to finish yours up before we have to go to class.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Sharing sources isn’t cheating, especially if you’re using the quotes to argue a different thesis. Now finish that,” Jazz pointed to the energy bar, “so we can go to bed.”

Prowl didn’t argue. He made quick work of the last few bites, then let Jazz push him down onto the berth and toss a blanket over him. Perhaps he should have protested — he shouldn’t be using Jazz’s paper to pull quotes, just like he shouldn’t be staying over in his dorm — but after a week of fending off his creators, he just didn’t have the energy.

Besides. The blanket smelled nice. Like the wax Jazz used, with just a hint of machine oil.

When the lights went out, Prowl dimmed his optics with them. As such, Jazz sliding in next to him came as a bit of a surprise, and he stiffened.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Prowl said quickly. “I just thought…” He hadn’t thought. Where else was Jazz going to sleep? Certainly not his roommate’s berth. “It’s fine.”

Prowl felt Jazz’s chuckle against his plating through the blanket. “I’m glad you agree. Now shut off that processor of yours. Let future-Prowl worry about tomorrow.”

“Future-Prowl will be me in just a few hours.”

“All the more reason to hurry up and go to sleep.” An arm draped over him in the dark, surprisingly comforting. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

_ I’ve got you. _

Reassured, Prowl found himself relaxing into the soft hum of Jazz’s engine and the calm, protective quiet of his field. 

“Thank you, Jazz,” he whispered.

Jazz whispered something back, but Prowl was already asleep.


	3. Vampire/Sparkeater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Festival of Mortilus is the perfect time for monsters to come out and hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Monsters, possibly minor body horror? No real gore or violence though

The music in the club was so loud Jazz could feel it in his plating. The bass reverberated down to his core, humming along his spinal strut, while the treble pulsed with the beat of his redundant fuel pump, aching in his empty lines.  

He was hungry. So very hungry.

One song ended and another began. Jazz thought about leaving the dance floor, to give himself over to the hunt, but the band began its next set and another mech grabbed his arm, pulling him deeper into the frenzy of writhing, grinding frames. He smiled and went with it, growling enticingly as his new partner ran unsuspecting hands over the glowing purple lines “painted” on his frame. 

Jazz loved the Festival of Mortilus. It was the one night every vorn where he could wear what he was openly and all anyone did was compliment him on his costume, never realizing the truth until it was too late. And Jazz… 

The tempo of the music shifted, somehow picking up to go even faster, and Jazz threw himself into it with abandon. His claws raked harmlessly over his partner, the hunger for fuel temporarily subsumed by the overwhelming need to move, to dance.

To  _ live. _

For Jazz, the Festival wasn’t just a chance to be free. It was a chance to forget. 

Alas, by the time the set ended, he could no longer deny the demands of his frame. Somehow he’d wound up without a partner again, but that was alright. Leaving the dancers and the energon hammering in their lines behind, Jazz made his way over to the bar and began assessing his prospects. Not that one, she was drinking Nightmare Fuel, and Jazz hated the aftertaste it left in his mouth. Not any of them, they were too tight-knit and would notice a member of their group going missing. Maybe that one, though the number of empty glasses collecting in front of him was enough to make Jazz hesitate. He didn’t mind the taste of regular engex, but the mech was drinking so much of it his fuel would probably be diluted to the point it wouldn’t satisfy. 

He’d just about come to the conclusion he’d have to look somewhere else when he saw him.  _ Bingo.  _ The solitary mech was done up in splotchy gray paint and tacky patches of false plating to give the appearance of rust and deterioration, and while it didn’t make for a convincing costume, it did help him blend in with the shadows at the end of the bar. His lack of movement played a part in that too, and his stiff posture and the completely untouched cube on the counter in front of him said plain as day that he’d rather be somewhere else.

Perfect. 

“Hey there,” Jazz said, raising his voice to be heard over the music without shouting as he sidled up next to him. “Getting into character?”

The mech turned to look at him, optics glowing a surprisingly pale, sickly yellow beneath a spray-painted chevron that looked like it was red beneath the gray. “I’m sorry?”

“Your costume. Sparkeaters don’t drink,” Jazz said, pointing to his cube. “Nice optic filters, by the way.”

“Oh. Thank you.” The mech shifted uncomfortably, and a few flakes of paint rubbed free and drifted to the floor around him. “Yours is quite good as well.”

“Thanks! I put a lot of effort into it.” Jazz grinned, showing off his fangs and letting the purple light he normally kept contained flare beneath his plating. He’d practiced the effect in the mirror, and he knew it made his visor flicker with an eerie incandescence that never failed to impress. 

Sure enough, his quarry was staring at him, transfixed. “I shudder to think how much you much have spent,” he said, and Jazz laughed.

“Probably way more than I should have, but I just couldn’t resist.” He turned, putting himself on display. “It even holds up away from the club lighting,” he said, holding out the bait. “Want to see?”

“You’re suggesting we go somewhere else?”

“Just up to the roof deck,” Jazz said, smiling at the mix of caution and hope in the mech’s voice. “It’ll be easier to talk up there too. Less noise.”

The sensory panels on the mech’s back twitched, and Jazz knew he’d hit on the right thing to say. He’d been holding those doors awfully rigid, like the sheer sensory overload of being in the club was making them ache. “Lead the way.”

Together they wove their way through the crowd, escaping at last through a door and up a staircase that deposited them on the roof. Jazz’s audios rang initially with the echoes of the music, but by the time he found them a nice, secluded spot, he’d adjusted to the quiet. 

His prey was obviously grateful for the change in atmosphere too. Standing there in the darkness, face tilted up under the pale light of the stars as his doors relaxed on his back, he was really quite beautiful despite the tacky costume. All in all he made for a lovely tableau.

Too bad Jazz’s hunger wouldn’t let him appreciate it any longer.

“So?” Jazz turned again, letting the cracks in his plating begin to separate. He stalked forward slowly, sensuously, and the mech obligingly backed up into the wall behind him. Purple light poured from Jazz’s mouth as the sides of his jaw split, throwing the shadow of death over the mech’s face. “What do you think?”

The mech stood frozen, his vents coming in shallow, rapid bursts. He’d pulled his field in so tight he was trembling with the effort. Fingers flexed uselessly against the wall at his back, and Jazz let out a soothing purr as he angled his face towards his neck. “Don’t worry,” he promised, stroking his claws down the mech’s arms to encircle his wrists. “It’ll all be over in a minute.” His fangs brushed against painted cables that tasted like chalk as he drew back his siphon, ready to spear the mech’s lines and drink until he—

“What a shame.”

_ What? _

“I was hoping you could sate my hunger.”

In an impossible flurry of movement, the mech beneath him whirled and transformed. Instead of pinning a tackily painted Praxan against the wall, Jazz found himself slammed back against the cold steel by the prehensile limbs that had sprouted from what he’d  _ thought  _ was his prey. False armor and bad paint fell away to reveal the true horror beneath, a being of dead gray pitted plating gaping over exposed struts and cables with burning optics that sent fear shivering down even Jazz’s spinal strut. 

Claws even longer and sharper than his own traced delicately along his cheek, dipping into the unnatural seams where his mouth widened; a mockery of a caress. “But just as I have no energon for you to drink,” it said, and Jazz found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the wry smile framed by sunken cheeks, “you have no spark for me to steal.”


	4. Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are they really enemies? Jazz's mind seems made up, but Prowl isn't as sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

The station medic was doing his best to hide it, but Prowl could hear the muffled laughter the minute he walked into the clinic.

“You might as well get it out of your system,” he grumbled, and was equal parts annoyed and gratified when the mech burst into full-on cackling. “I’m glad you find my condition so amusing.”

“It’s not— I mean yes, you look terrible, but— you know I’m not laughing at your pain.”

“Of course you are.” Everyone had: the receptionist at the front desk when he’d come in, the guards in the waiting room as he’d walked through, and all the officers in the bullpen he’d passed on his way here. Prowl sighed, resigned. “But I know it’s not my physical pain you find so amusing.”

First Aid’s giggling died down at that. “Are you in any physical pain?” he asked seriously, picking up a portable scanner and directing Prowl to stand still. “We’re going to have to start in the shower either way, but if the solvent is going to aggravate anything…” 

“Nothing worse than the usual dents and scrapes,” Prowl assured him. His whole frame ached from top to bottom, but it was the ache of exertion and minor damage, not anything traumatic. “I wish he would stop treating me like the enemy when I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Well, to him, your job  _ is  _ the enemy.” The scanner beeped benignly, confirming Prowl’s assessment of his injuries, and First Aid gestured him over to the wash rack. “Mechs with a bad history with the police don’t tend to get over it easily.”

“I know that.” Prowl had been an enforcer long enough to have encountered plenty of mechs who felt the system had failed them, and he didn’t blame them for their lack of trust. The system  _ did _ fail people sometimes, and it had most certainly failed Jazz. “But if he continues behaving like this I won’t be able to keep the captain from stepping in.”

“He should have already stepped in.”

“You know why I don’t want that.”

“I do.” The cleanser pouring down over him obscured First Aid’s face, but the concern in his field as he used the handheld sprayer to target tougher areas of the hardened muck coating Prowl’s frame was unmistakable. “Have you tried explaining the situation to him?”

“He doesn’t believe me. What little I’ve managed to get out before he takes off, anyway.” Each time Prowl had managed to locate Jazz he’d tried to tell him how serious things were getting, but the mech had absolutely no interest in hearing him out or cooperating.

“Maybe you need a better elevator pitch,” First Aid said, hard bristle brush making its appearance to get into Prowl’s joints and clean them out. “If he’s only going to give you a few seconds to talk, make them count.”

“Perhaps.” Privately Prowl doubted it would make a difference, but he held his tongue. First Aid was a good mech, but his priorities weren’t the same as Prowl’s. His job was to take care of everyone on the force, and he’d already nearly gone over Prowl’s head once where Jazz was concerned.

It was a sheer stroke of luck that Prowl had managed to convince him the rebar incident had been an accident. Which it had been, from a certain point of view. Jazz hadn’t lead him into the construction site with the intent to impale him, even if he had meant the hazards to discourage Prowl’s pursuit. Prowl had seen the flash of horror on his face right after he’d pushed him, the desperate grab to catch him as he fell from the scaffolding. Jazz wanted, as he’d so eloquently stated on multiple occasions, to be “left the frag alone”, but he wasn’t a bad mech.

He was involved in bad things though, and therein lay the crux of the problem.

“Alright,” First Aid said, shutting off the cleanser. “You should take the time for a full soak to make sure you get all of that stuff off later, but that’s good enough for me to take care of those dents now. What did he do, drive you off the road into Praxus’ biggest mud puddle?”

“Not quite,” Prowl chuckled, moving over to the indicated berth. “The chase took us into the warehouse district this time and I lost control trying to corner.” It had rained heavily last night, and Jazz, with his smaller, more maneuverable frame, had been a lot better at dodging the giant acid puddles scattered all over the place. “I spun out and sent myself into the pile of refuse I came back wearing.”

“A pile of refuse full of rocks by the look of your side.”  _ Pop!  _ Prowl winced. Popping dents wasn’t exactly painful, most of the time, but it still felt awkward. “And once again, Jazz gets away without answering any questions.”

_ Pop!  _ “I’ll try the elevator pitch next time,” Prowl said. He was running out of chances to get the interview he needed before the captain stepped in and put out an arrest warrant, charging Jazz with obstruction and more. Prowl still wanted to avoid escalating things if at all possible, but the only way to do that would be to convince Jazz of that fact… 

“You realize everyone else already thinks he’s complicit in the whole affair.”

“Everyone else is wrong.”

“I didn’t think you were—”  _ Pop!  _ “—that naive.” First Aid set aside the dent popper. “Why put so much effort into running if he doesn’t have anything to hide?”

“You’re not that naive either.” Prowl sat up, grimacing at the gravel he still needed to pick out of his seams. “Not everyone who runs is guilty.”

“No. Sometimes they’re just afraid.” But it was obvious First Aid didn’t think that was the case with Jazz. “You're all set. Better luck taking down your nemesis next time.”

“He’s not my nemesis,” Prowl said, pausing on his way out to give First Aid an ironic smile. “Just the bane of my existence.”


	5. Laundromat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isn't the laundromat your dream summer destination?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Minor angst

Summer was, in Jazz’s opinion, the absolute best time of the year. Summer meant tourist season, and tourist season meant new faces, new friends, new adventures! And, best of all, it meant seeing Prowl again.

They’d first met three summers ago at, of all places, the town laundromat. Jazz had been there grudgingly, wasting an afternoon in front of the machines because it was “his turn” to do the chore while his siblings got to spend the day on the beach. Unhelpful as always, his twin had sent message after message with pictures of all the fun he was missing, and after an hour of that garbage Jazz had worked up a rather respectable sulk. That was when Prowl had arrived, basket full of beach towels under his arm and an unsure expression on his face. After wandering around for several minutes looking lost and confused, he’d finally stopped in front of Jazz.

“Excuse me,” he’d said politely, “I’ve never used machines like these before. Would you help me?”

It had been the start of a beautiful friendship. Ricochet had made fun of Jazz for suddenly insisting that laundry was his job from now on, but Jazz didn’t care. Every week he’d looked forward to that one day where he and Prowl would meet at the laundromat and hang out together while the machines chugged away behind them. Prowl, he’d learned, was vacationing with his family in one of the private cabins in the hills farther up the coast. A rustic, minimalist place, there were no laundry facilities on site and so he’d come to town to take care of the chore. Apparently he and his siblings had argued about who had to be the one to do it and drawn up a rotation too, but after that first week, it was always Prowl who arrived with the basket of towels.

The summer had gone by far too quickly. When Prowl had told Jazz that his family was returning home, that he wouldn’t be able to keep him company while he did the laundry anymore, Jazz had been miserable. They’d barely had any time together! He’d sulked until the last of the towels was dry, angry that he was ruining their last day together but unable to help it. And then, instead of saying goodbye and good riddance to your bad attitude, Prowl had wrapped him a trembling hug.

“We come here every summer. See you next year?”

They’d made a promise of it, and kept it every year since. As soon as summer came around, Jazz would monopolize the laundry and wait anxiously each week for Prowl to appear. He never knew when exactly to expect him; his family came toward the beginning of the season and stayed for a month, sometimes two, but that was all he had to go on. Ricochet called him an idiot for not asking Prowl for his number so he could just call him, but something always held Jazz back from that very practical solution. There was a kind of magic in having a friend who only appeared for the summer from a far away place, who kept him company in the laundromat and, as their friendship grew, wandered the boardwalk with him on summer nights, window shopping in the tourist boutiques and sharing sweets as they watched the sun set over the rust sea. Jazz didn’t want to be the one to break that spell, and perhaps Prowl felt the same because he never asked Jazz for his number either.

“Maybe I should have asked anyway,” he muttered to the uncaring soap dispenser a month into the season. Jazz was struggling not to worry that he might not be coming this year, or worse — that he was here, but was avoiding him for some reason. All week long he’d been telling himself to wait, just wait for laundry day, surely he’ll be there this time; don’t do something stupid and creepy like drive up into the hills to find his family’s cabin and see if he’s there. Now here it was, a fourth week gone with no sign of Prowl, and Jazz didn’t know what to do. 

Dispirited, Jazz parked himself in his usual chair and sat, listlessly staring at the swirling suds in the washing machine. It was boring sitting here by himself, but when he reached the last load he continued feeding coins into the machine to run rinse cycle after rinse cycle instead of moving on to the dryer. Maybe he was still coming, but he was running late? Pathetic as he’d felt about doing it, Jazz had asked the attendant if he’d seen Prowl yet this summer and been told no, so he knew he didn’t have the wrong day of the week. 

The sun streaming through the wall of windows at his back deepened as the afternoon wore on into a rich evening gold. With a sigh, Jazz forced himself to his feet and stopped the washing machine. His family would be wondering where he was soon, or at least wondering why he hadn’t dropped off the laundry before leaving again with Prowl. Jazz wasn’t in the mood for his twin’s heckling, but there was nothing for it. Maybe if he was really quiet he could leave the laundry on the porch and sneak off to finish moping alone on the docks. 

“Pathetic,” he told himself, closing the dryer and pressing start. 

Nothing happened.

“Oh, come  _ on,”  _ he groaned, checking all the settings before pressing the button again. Nothing. “Stupid machine!”

“Maybe you should try another one,” a sparkbreakingly familiar voice said behind him. Afraid he’d imagined it, Jazz whirled around and felt his vents catch at the sight of Prowl standing there, glowing, backlit by the evening sun. “I’ve got extra change, if you need it.”

“Prowl!” Jazz leapt into his arms, sending the coins in his outstretched hand scattering to the floor to roll and topple on the linoleum. “You’re here!”

“I’m here,” Prowl confirmed, returning the embrace. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Didn’t,” Jazz lied, face pressed into Prowl’s shoulder. “…I thought maybe you weren’t coming this year.”

“I wasn’t supposed to. My older brother graduated this spring, and the family decided he could choose our vacation this year.”

“Let me guess — he didn’t want to come to this ‘boring old backwater’ again?”

“No, he didn’t. But I didn’t want to go to the ritzy, overblown resort that he picked, so we compromised.” Prowl pulled back slightly, and Jazz looked up to meet his optics. “I spent two weeks with them there ‘giving it a chance’ with the agreement that if it still wasn’t to my liking I could come here on my own for the rest of the summer.”

“And here you are.”

“Yes. I’m sorry I couldn’t get into town sooner,” he said, ducking his head, “but I only arrived this afternoon.”

Jazz chuckled. “So, in other words, the very first thing you did on your own private vacation was come to the laundromat. Without any laundry.”

“…Yes?” He sounded embarrassed. “Is that bad?”

“Not a bit.” Impulsively, Jazz raised up on his toes, holding on to Prowl’s shoulders as he brought their lips together in a gentle kiss. Flushing with his own embarrassment, he asked, “Was that bad?”

The smile on Prowl’s face was perfect. “Not a bit,” he echoed, and leaned in to return the kiss.


	6. Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not Hogwarts itself, but still the Wizarding World of Harry Potter - with a little police drama thrown in for good measure!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: humanformers, genderbending, gangs

Jazz was perched precariously at the top of the ladder in the back room when the bell above the front door jingled cheerfully, announcing a visitor. “One moment,” she called, shifting the box she’d just managed to retrieve into one hand so she could climb down. Stepping out into the shop, she found a rather severe looking man in an immaculately tailored suit standing beside the counter.  _ Uh oh.  _ “Can I help you?”

“Jasmine Davies?” he asked, checking a piece of —  _ damn —  _ parchment in his hand.

“I go by Jazz,” Jazz said pleasantly, masking apprehension behind a friendly smile. “And you are…?” 

“Peter Holloway, from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” There was no smile on his face, friendly or otherwise. “Your cooperation in our investigation is appreciated.”

_ More like it’s being assumed,  _ Jazz thought, but kept the words behind her teeth. Antagonize-the-Auror wasn’t a good game to be playing when there was an investigation involved, especially not with  _ this  _ Auror. “What can I do for you?” she asked, carefully not-thinking about any of the reasons the Ministry might have sent “the Prowler” to talk to her.

“When was the last time you were in contact with your sister, Skipper Davies?”

_ Oh no.  _ What had she done  _ now?  _ “Last Christmas,” Jazz said, thinking quickly. “She sent an owl to say she wasn’t going to be able to make it back for the holiday.”

“Do you have any knowledge of her current whereabouts?”

“Last I knew she was somewhere in the States.” Worry warred with relief; relief that this wasn’t about anything she’d done (Jazz didn’t  _ break  _ the law! She just… bent it a little bit, from time to time), and worry for her twin. “Why? What happened?”

The Auror sidestepped her question. “Will you allow a search of the premises?”

“What?!” Oh, that was ridiculous! “You think I’m hiding her in my shop?”

He gave her a long, calculating look. Jazz tried not to fidget as he continued to stare, wondering if the rumors of his skill as a Legilimens were true.  _ If you’re trying to read my thoughts,  _ she thought deliberately,  _ get out of my head!  _ He had no business being there, even if she had had something to hide. 

Either he really had been trying to read her mind or the timing was a coincidence, because no sooner had she had the thought than he shook his head. “We have no concrete evidence to indicate you might be harbouring her,” he said. “However, our sources indicate that she has, in fact, returned from the States. Are you aware of the recent string of high profile magical thefts?”

Jazz pressed her lips together. “I read the Prophet.” There had been several articles recently about those thefts. Their increasing number and complexity made for good press, particularly given the alleged gang connection, and Jazz had been following the story with a kind of morbid curiosity. “You think she’s involved?”

“We know she is.” The Auror reached into his jacket and withdrew his wand — a gorgeous dark wood, Jazz noted, but stiff. Unyielding. He glanced meaningfully at the shop windows and Jazz withdrew her own wand, flicking the thin ash baton in the direction of the blinds to close them. “This symbol,” he continued, carving lines of light in the space between them with precise strokes, “has been found at every crime scene to date. It’s the symbol of a New York muggle street gang called the Decepticons.”

It looked almost like a mask. An angular, pointed mask. The purple lines glowed ominously, and Jazz swallowed nervously. “What does that have to do with Skip?”

“Whether they originated in New York and are related to the muggle gang or are just borrowing their iconography, we’ve identified a core group of witches and wizards in London calling themselves Decepticons.” With a wave of his wand, several portraits appeared in the air next to the gang symbol. Jazz felt her throat constrict as a familiar face materialized in the lineup. “Until recently we had only their gang aliases to go on, but then a member of our office thought he recognized Ricochet,” he indicated her twin, “as you.” 

Damn their identical features. “Guess I should be happy you figured out I’m innocent then.” 

“We figured out that Ricochet was your twin,” the Auror corrected. “Your innocence is yet to be determined.”

“But you said—”

“I said there is no evidence of you harbouring a criminal in your shop. There are other ways in which you could be connected to their activities.”

“Right.” Like hiding her twin at her flat, or knowing where she was hiding, or helping these Decepticons fence the things they stole. “So what do I have to do to prove I’m  _ not  _ connected by anything other than a coincidental blood relationship?”

“Cooperate with our investigation. Allow us to ascertain that your sister has not been in contact with you and that you have no involvement in her criminal activities.”

“Allow you to turn my life and my business inside out, you mean.” Her twin was  _ lucky  _ Jazz didn’t know where she was; right about now, Jazz wanted to strangle her. An investigation like this was a gross invasion of privacy, and while she was innocent of any Decepticon-related dealings, some of her other rule-bending was bound to come to light. But there was nothing for it. Resisting the investigation would just make them more determined to find something. “Fine. Do you need to start disrupting everything now, or can I finish up business for the day and come by the Ministry in the morning to make arrangements?”

“In the morning will be satisfactory.” Banishing the images from the air, he tucked his wand back into his jacket. “Just ask for me when you arrive. I’ll be waiting.”

“I bet you will.” Jazz tucked her wand away too, leaving the blinds closed. “If that’s all for now…?”

“I’ll be on my way, yes.” He paused when he reached the door, and for the first time Jazz saw something other than stern professionalism on his face. “I must advise you not to reach out to your sister, however much you may want to,” he said seriously. “The Decepticons are very dangerous.”

“You think they’d hurt me?”

“I would rather not find out.” The concern lingered in his eyes. “I will see you in the morning.”

The bell chimed again as he left, ringing in the silence of the empty shop.

“…Fantastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, if you think the idea of a Decepticon gang in New York is ridiculous, check out the [New York Times](https://www.nytimes.com/1989/03/01/nyregion/a-gang-gives-a-name-to-students-fear-decepticons.html).
> 
> Also - thank you so much [plantmandotexeretired](http://plantmandotexeretired.tumblr.com/post/177279429959/got-inspired-by-rizobact-and-her-hogwarts-au-for) for the gorgeous art!! <3


	7. Famous (FotF)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being famous can strain relationships. Prowl and Jazz won't let theirs be one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Petting, kissing, tongue piercings; slight mentions of past trauma
> 
> Surprise! I actually wrote something for my [Festival of the Five](https://archiveofourown.org/series/353039) series. This takes place some time after [Testing the Waters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10385430), but for those who haven't read that or [Winner Takes All](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583418/chapters/10439841), here's the basic context: Jazz entered and won the planetwide Challenge of Adaptus to earn the chance to ask Prowl to be his bondmate, during which he was badly injured and nearly killed by Lockdown. He and Prowl are now living together in a year of ritual courtship when Jazz isn't travelling with his band, which has been rocketed into stardom after the publicity he got in the Challenge.

“Welcome back,” Prowl said, looking over his shoulder with a smile as his partner entered the room. “Was your concert successful?”

“Successful, yeah, but exhausting.” Jazz smiled back, hopping over the back of the couch instead of taking the time to walk around it to land softly beside him. Prowl set down his datapad and lifted his arm to make room, and Jazz immediately snuggled up against his side with a sigh that was equal parts relief and frustration. “You know I love a challenge, but I swear, if Beatbox ever gets the idea to have us dance a full set at that tempo again I’ll dance on her helm! There was no chance to catch a break anywhere in the show, and all three nights the crowd called for an encore! I about collapsed straight into my berth every time we got back to our trailer.”

That certainly did sound taxing, and Jazz was the best dancer in their group. “If it was that difficult even for you, how was Switchstep able to get through it at all?”

“His part of the routine was less complicated. We weren’t doing synchro except in a few places, since it’s me everyone wants to see in the spotlight.”

Ah. So Jazz’s increased fame was still forcing them change up their performances. “Is the rest of the group taking that well?”

“Well-ish, for the most part.” Jazz sighed again, and Prowl saw him absently begin tracing circles on the palm of one hand. Faintly scarred fingers stroked over the hidden magnetic mod below the healed surface of his palm, soothing remembered pain in a nervous gesture that had yet to fade even after the worst of his nightmares had finally stopped. “Blaster and Beatbox are taking it in stride, but Switchstep… He says he understands, but there’s a difference between knowing and feeling, you know? The resentment’s still there, even if he knows I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Prowl reached out to cover Jazz’s hands with his own, stilling his fidgeting. “Given his pre-existing jealousy of your skill, however, I can’t say that it surprises me.”

“Me neither, in a way. But it isn’t fair he gets to be mad at me for something I can’t control, especially when it’s his fault  — all their faults — for encouraging me enter the Challenge in the first place.”

“Do you…” Prowl couldn’t finish the question, but Jazz seemed to know what he was trying to ask anyway. He shifted in his arms, pressing their frames together so there wasn’t an inch of space between them as he wrapped Prowl in a fierce hug.

“Never,” he said firmly, the word somewhat muffled for being said into his neck cables. “I could never regret it. 

Prowl relaxed, feeling somewhat foolish. “I know you don’t, but—”

“—but there’s a difference between knowing and feeling.” Jazz lifted his head so Prowl could see the smile on his face that said better than anything that he understood. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you as many times as it takes for it to sink in all the way that you are worth the hassle of becoming a celebrity.”

It would have been nice not to need the reassurance, but Prowl was grateful for it. “Thank you.”

“Any time.” Jazz settled back down against him, one hand coming up to trace along the edge of Prowl’s bumper and teasingly circle a headlight. “I missed you, Prowler.”

The sensual touch combined with the nickname made his engine rev quietly, and Prowl’s field flushed with embarrassment. He started to look away, but Jazz brought his other hand up to his cheek to keep him from turning his head. “Hey. Whatever you’re comfortable with is fine. We can just relax and cuddle if that’s what you want. But if it’s okay to keep going, I did pick up a surprise I’d like to show you.” The hand on his chassis lay poised and still, waiting for a direction. “Just say the word.”

The knowledge that Jazz would stop if he asked him to never failed to make Prowl want him even more. Refusing to give in to his insecurities this time, Prowl wrapped his hands around Jazz’s waist and pulled him up so he could give his answer against his lips. “Keep going.”

Immediately Jazz’s hand resumed its exploration as he hummed happily into the kiss. The sound of his fans spinning up from just that simple contact still amazed Prowl. Even when all they did was light tactile and fieldplay, Jazz always wound up overheating and desperate. All it took was Prowl  _ being  _ there. How could Jazz want him so much? 

Then again, he wanted Jazz just as badly. He wanted him enough to explore things he’d never had never had any desire for in the past, and he had yet to regret trusting Jazz to broaden his horizons. What sort of surprise did he have in store for him this time? He wanted to find out… 

Prowl’s engine whined eagerly as Jazz began to deepen their kiss. His lips quirked against his in a smile, his tongue darting along the seam between them and  _ just  _ dipping inside in time with his questing fingers, which were busily seeking out sensitive cables and connectors on the underside of Prowl’s bumper. Pinned beneath him on the couch, Prowl did his best to return the touches, teasing his way down over Jazz’s torso until he reached his hips. Past experience had taught him where the best spots were to drive Jazz’s charge higher and Prowl went for them with practiced precision, a surge of pride mixing with his desire at the sound that rose from Jazz’s vocalizer.

He let out a confused, startled squeak when Jazz’s tongue pushed into his mouth to brush against his own. Something was different.

“That’s the surprise,” Jazz said, pulling back with a smile. Before Prowl could ask, he opened his mouth, revealing a bright metal stud in the middle of his tongue. “What do you think?”

What did he think? Prowl blinked stupidly, not knowing what to think. “You… Why?” he asked, worried that silence would offend Jazz but at a loss for what to say.

Luckily, Jazz took it in stride. “I like the way it looks,” he said, sitting back in Prowl’s lap so they could talk more easily. “It’s fun to play with, and if you let me, I can do some fun things with it.” Prowl couldn’t imagine what those fun things were, but the lusty quirk of Jazz’s smile was enough to tell him they had to do with interfacing. Then his visor dimmed slightly, and a shadow started to creep into his field. “Plus… I dunno. It felt kind of like reclaiming it.”

Realization dawned. Prowl reached for Jazz’s mouth and he opened it, letting him see the beaded barbell again. Now that he was looking for it, Prowl could see it was slightly off-center; not a mistake made by whoever had done the piercing, but a deliberate choice on Jazz’s part to hide the scar that had been there before.

Prowl framed Jazz’s face with his hands. “It’s perfect,” he said, and kissed him again. If the jewelry helped Jazz to put that trauma behind him, then it was perfect. 

Jazz’s field flooded with relief, and the darkness of the moment receded beneath his renewed joy and enthusiasm. They continued to kiss until both their engines were running hot, only stopping when Prowl’s hands returned to the spots on Jazz’s hips, making him arch back with a sharp cry.

Light glinted off the barbell and Prowl smiled. “Please,” he said, curiosity blending with desire. “Show me what you can do with it.”


	8. Superpower Swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigma abilities are like superpowers, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

When the battle came to an abrupt, confused halt, they all quickly agreed to turn the quarry into an impromptu quarantine zone. Everyone who had been in the blast radius, Autobot and Decepticon alike, were not to leave until the scientists could figure out what had happened.

“Why is that even a question?” Skywarp snapped irritably. “We all know what happened. Wheeljack happened!”

“He helped,” Wheeljack said.

“Save the accusations and kindly focus on helping me fix this,” Starscream said, his voice uncharacteristically calm and devoid of emotion. “The sooner we’re all back to normal, the better.”

“I couldn’t agree—”  _ Vop!  _ “—more.” Unable to control his new ability, Cliffjumper teleported again mid-sentence. Skywarp echoed his curse.

“Let’s all just try to stay calm and quiet and let them work,” Prowl’s disembodied voice said.

“We are tying,” Mirage sniffed, his perfectly visible face wrinkled into a distasteful expression. “But this is most disconcerting. Not to mention unpleasant.”

“Is it really that bad?” Hound whispered, trying to avoid setting off another accidental sonic boom.

“While I imagine I would acclimate to the additional sensory input given time, I would prefer not to have the opportunity,” Mirage said. 

“Well said,” Jazz muttered. He was sitting as far away from everyone as he could get without leaving the quarantine zone, and he looked miserable. “No, Prowl, I told you to stay away.”

“I’m concerned about you,” Prowl’s voice said from a new location, indicating the invisible mech had moved closer to Jazz.

“I know.  _ Believe me,  _ I know.” Jazz turned to look unerringly at nothing. “Bright side?” he said quietly, his comment going unheard by the others as Skywarp and Cliffjumper started another shouting match. “I can tell you  _ exactly  _ how telepathic Sounders really is.”

“I’m not convinced that’s a good thing. You’re overheating.”

“Should see the warnings I’m getting on my HUD about unsafe operating conditions,” Jazz tossed back. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s no way to shut it down.”

“There must be a way. You simply need to find the right trigger to—”

“Yeah, get back to me on that after you figure out a way to turn off Mirage’s invisibility,” Jazz interrupted, his voice brittle. “Sorry. This sucks and it’s making me irritable.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help,” Prowl said with genuine regret.  _ Regret, concern, fear/worry/lo— _

“Please.” Jazz covered his head with his hands, as though that could keep out the foreign thoughts. “Prowl, if you’re going to sit that close, at least run the countermeasures. I can’t control it, can’t stay out of your head.”

“I know.” The psychic presence that was Prowl didn’t move or change in the slightest. “You have my permission.”

“Just like that? Blanket permission to rummage around in your thoughts?” Jazz huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s awfully generous of you.”

“It’s a practical consideration, actually.” Which, coming from Prowl, sounded perfectly reasonable, except Jazz could  _ see  _ the way the thought had formed in his processor — a blinding flash of electrical intuition rather than a calculated string of decisions. 

“Gotta be weird for you, coming to conclusions like that without analyzing every possible permutation first,” he said, feeling Prowl’s  _ surprise/amusement  _ at the observation.

“In a way, yes,” he admitted. “But also liberating. Whoever wound up with my more analytical thought patterns is likely being frustrated by them.”

“Bet it’s Rumble. He was moaning about being able to see the consequences of his actions earlier.”

Prowl chuckled. “It’s a shame he’s unlikely to learn anything from the experience, once they manage to reverse it.”

“If they manage to reverse it.”

“They will.”  _ Confidence  _ powerful enough to physically rock Jazz where he sat sang through Prowl’s processor. “It is simply a matter of time.”

“What if it takes too much time? What if— ow!” Jazz flinched at the magically appearing cooling pack that pressed itself to his helm. “Oh. That… that actually helps.”

“I know it’s only a temporary solution,” Prowl said, “but I promise. I will not let you burn out your processor while we wait for a permanent one.”

Jazz’s spark constricted in his chassis. “I’d ask why you’re being so considerate, but…” He shivered, an emotional reaction to what he could see in Prowl's head rather than a physical response to the cooling pack. “Why are you letting me see all of this? Why  _ now?” _

“When I never told you before? Because.” Prowl made absolutely no effort to hide the _care/affection/love_ in his thoughts. “You wouldn’t have believed me. Even if you wanted to,” he amended, _hope_ that his feelings might be reciprocated shining bright in his mind, “you would have suspected an ulterior motive. I don’t need telepathy to know how people see me, or to know how you have to view the world to do your job.” _Understanding/admiration/acceptance._ “This way,” he said gently, “there can be no possible doubt.”

“Clever reasoning there,” Jazz said, unable to deny the truth of it. If he hadn’t been able to see so clearly into Prowl’s thoughts… “But you couldn’t have planned on me acquiring psychic powers to solve that problem.”

“Of course not.” And Jazz gasped as Prowl’s actual plan spread out before him, straightforward and uncomplicated: he’d expected to tell him over and over, to continually reassure him that his feelings weren’t part of some convoluted scheme, as many times as it took, just as soon as he worked out the best conditions to make his initial confession. “But it would have been hopelessly foolish of me not to take advantage of it since you did.”

Jazz laughed. “Would have, wouldn’t it?” He was still overheating, but the pain in his head was nothing compared to the warmth building in his spark. “Good thing you’re such a brilliant strategist.”

“Even without my tactical computer,” Prowl agreed. “So. Let’s make the most of this while it lasts.”

“By which you mean, satisfy any and all doubts while I can. Prowl, mech,” Jazz warned, “you won’t have any secrets left.”

“Perhaps I don’t feel a need to keep any from you.” He didn’t. He really didn’t. “And besides,” a glimmer of cold, calculating brilliance limned the edges of his thoughts, “I’m willing to make a sacrifice if the result is a better understanding of the enemy’s abilities.”

“Well, in  _ that  _ case,” Jazz chuckled, grinning up at the invisible smile he could see in his mind. “Let’s see what we can find out.”


	9. Summer Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl didn't come to camp to make friends. That doesn't stop Jazz from befriending him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

“It’ll be a great experience,” they had said. “Much more fun than sitting around the house all summer! You’ll see.”

By someone else’s definition of fun, maybe. The only thing Prowl was enjoying about this whole, awful experience was that the counselors had finally given up on him. No more pestering him to participate in the group activities, no more dragging him away from his books to socialize with the other campers; if he wanted to stay in the cabin and read, they let him, though they’d still level pointed looks and comments about that not being the way to make any friends at him on their way out.

Prowl didn’t care. What did it matter what the counselors thought of him, or the other campers? It wasn’t like they would ever see each other again after they all went home. There was no point in making friends for the summer. 

He didn’t always stay inside though, despite finally being allowed to do so. The cabins were very basic, little more than covered shelters to store their belongings and keep the rain and mist off them overnight, and that meant they got unbearably hot in the heat of the day. It was much more comfortable to go out into the valley and find a cool, shaded place with actual ventilation to curl up and read, and it had the benefit of getting him away from the pitying, disapproving gaze of the counselors to boot. 

Today, unfortunately, Prowl found his favorite spot had been washed out. The ledge he’d been using as a seat had crumbled, leaving a pile of broken rubble in a puddle of acid that sprawled out to fill the tiny clearing, glittering in the sun. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” 

Prowl stiffened at the unexpected voice and turned to glare at its owner. Who had followed him out here?

“I was hoping there’d be puddles like this after last night,” the intruder said, either oblivious to or unaffected by Prowl’s hostility. “This is the biggest one I’ve found so far!”

The lack of a counsellor’s sigil on his black and white plating marked him as a fellow camper, meaning he couldn’t demand Prowl come back to the group and join in whatever inane team-building-disguised-as-nature-exploration activity they were up to today, but Prowl still didn’t want him here. “Go away,” he said. “I want to be alone.”

“Alone?” The mech came closer, walking past Prowl to kneel at the edge of the puddle. “Should find someplace else then. You’re definitely not alone here.”

“I was before you showed up.”

“Is that what you think? Then you’re not looking close enough.” The mech drew his arm back and, with a flash of concentration across his optic band, darted his hand out into the acid.

“What are you doing?!” Didn’t that hurt?

“Aha!” With a triumphant smile the mech stood, dropping something into his dry hand before shaking the other off. Prowl flinched back automatically, but none of the acid droplets flew anywhere near him. “Here, come closer — don’t worry, he won’t bite. See?” He held out his hand. “They’re harmless.”

Prowl leaned closer, curious in spite of himself. “What is it?”

“Cybertriops,” the mech said. “They live in still or slow-moving acid, crawling and swimming around eating up the impurities.” 

The creature — cybertriops — in the mech’s hand was mostly still, save for a pair of long, waving antennae. Prowl could see dozens of little legs curled up under its semi-translucent shell. “It looks like a scraplet.”

“Only if you’ve never seen a real scraplet before. They’re about the same size, but that’s it. For one thing, scraplets don’t have a tail like these guys.” The mech trailed a finger over the cybertriops, making the thin feelers on the end of its tail twitch. “They’ve also got much bigger optics. See how tiny these are? He’s practically blind out of the acid.”

“You should put it back then.”

“Probably. But I wanted you to see it!” The mech knelt back down and tipped the cybertriops out of his hand with a soft  _ splash!  _ “These ones are hard to see when they’re submerged, but once you know what to look for, they’re everywhere!”

Really? Prowl joined him at the edge of the acid and looked down, searching for them. At first he didn’t see anything, but then— “Oh! There’s one!” It was fascinating the way it moved in the liquid, wriggling its little legs and lashing its tail to propel itself forward. “And there!”

“Told you.” The mech smiled. “I’m Jazz, by the way. Nickel cabin.”

“Prowl. Chrome.” 

“Isn’t the chrome cabin supposed to be making sundials right now?”

“Isn’t the nickel cabin supposed to be hiking on the other side of the valley right now?”

They stared at each other for a moment, then Jazz broke the contest with a laugh. “Yeah, but we weren’t finding anything interesting over there so I decided to strike out on my own. What about you?”

“I already told you,” Prowl said, even though he’d lost interest in his book. “I wanted to be alone.”

“Ah. Well, I can go, if you want,” Jazz said, brushing gravel from his knees as he stood. “But you won’t be alone. Not with all these guys for company.”

Prowl looked down at the cybertriops. When he looked back up, Jazz had already started to leave. “Wait,” he said, startling them both. “Would you… show me how to catch one?”

Jazz smiled. “Sure thing.”


	10. Secret Agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this looks reminiscent of the plot of a particular movie... there's probably a reason for that XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Rung, couples therapy, secrets

“On a scale of one to ten, how happy are you as a couple?”

“Eight.”

“Wait.” Prowl continued looking straight ahead, not even glancing at his partner while Jazz floundered. “Ten being perfectly happy and one being totally miserable, or…”

“Just respond instinctively,” Rung prompted.

“Okay then. Um…” Jazz glanced over at Prowl, who still made no move to break from his staring contest with the therapist. “I guess… eight.”

Rung resisted the urge to sigh. It was important to keep an open mind with new patients, but it was also important to get a general impression of them, and these two were already making very strong, very contradicting, impressions. “Alright.” He made a note on his datapad, then moved on to the next standard question. “And how much time do you spend together?”

“Is this another one to ten thing? Like, how many nights a decaorn do we spend together?”

“If that is a helpful way to think of it.”

“Uh… well.” Jazz shifted restlessly in his chair, his fidgeting made all the more obvious by Prowl’s statuesque posture. Not even his doorwings were twitching. “Like, an average decaorn, or this past one?”

“A scale of zero to ten might be more useful,” Prowl said, which told Rung all he needed to know right there. 

“Where do you usually spend your time then?”

“Work,” both mechs answered in perfect sync. Finally Prowl looked back at Jazz, who gave a nervous smile and shrugged before continuing. “I’m in consulting,” he said. “Public relations. My clients hire me to help them out when they need a little reputation rehab.”

“And you, Prowl?”

“He does more straight-forward rehab.” Jazz chuckled like it was an old joke, but Prowl didn’t laugh.

“I’m a contractor,” he said, voice as expressionless as his face. “Construction. My job requires a significant amount of travel, as does his. Depending on where our projects take us, there may be quartexes at a time where we do not see each other.”

“I see.” Work often kept couples apart, but it didn’t have to be a breaking point in their relationship. Sometimes frequent separation made time together more special, but Rung suspected the magic these two had once shared was badly diminished, if not gone entirely. “What about when you are able to see each other?’ The blank stares were not encouraging. “Do you go out together? Have date nights? Interface?”

More blank stares.

“Perhaps it would be easier if we spoke one on one,” Rung suggested when neither of them broke the silence for over a klik. “Jazz, would you—”

“Leaving,” Jazz said, practically leaping up from his chair. Interesting that he’d assumed Rung was going to ask him to leave, rather than be the one to go first. “I’ll just chill in the waiting room until you’re done.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Prowl hadn’t watched him go.

.

.

.

The click of the door shutting behind Jazz wasn’t an angry sound. Prowl didn’t let it show on his face, but he was relieved. He didn’t want Jazz to be angry about this. He wanted this to work.

“So. Prowl.” Rung removed his glasses, rubbing them absently with a cleaning cloth. “These sessions were your idea, weren’t they?”

“Yes.” The therapist rose in his esteem for having worked that out so quickly. “Our partnership has been suffering, and I want to repair it.”

“Like you would any other construction project?” 

“Yes. No.” Jazz wasn’t a construction project. Their relationship wasn’t a contract job. And Prowl wasn’t really in construction, anyway. “Something is broken between us and I do not have the tools to fix it. I was hoping you would.”

“Hmm.” Rung put the glasses back on rather than setting them on the table beside him; going for professionalism over personability then. Calculated as the move probably was, Prowl approved. “The first step to fixing anything that has been broken, as I’m sure you’re aware, is to identify both the problem and its source.”

“I have not been able to do either.” Which was  _ galling,  _ because that was Prowl did on a daily basis: identified problems, tracked down their causes, and… dealt with them. Discreetly. His operatives were all top-notch, but their effectiveness was based on  _ his  _ ability to wield them. Prowl didn’t know what to do with Jazz. “Can you help me?”

“I will certainly try,” Rung said, sincerity in his small smile. “But even without knowing very much about your situation, I can tell you it won’t be easy.”

“I had assumed as much. That is why I am here.” 

“And what about Jazz? Why is he here?”

“Jazz is here because I asked him to come with me.” Prowl paused, hearing his own words in a new light. Jazz didn’t always go along with his requests without protest, and he hadn’t protested this. “Does that mean there is hope?” 

“It’s a positive sign,” Rung said.  _ The first I’ve seen all morning,  _ Prowl read in the pause before he continued. “Why don’t you tell me about how you fell in love? Remembering what drew you to Jazz in the first place may help you identify the things you value most about your relationship and see where those aspects have been diminishing.”

Prowl nodded. It was a logical approach, and a pleasant memory. “We met at the Prima’s Day Festival in Kaon. I was there for work,” tidying up loose ends after word came that a target he’d been after for nearly a vorn had finally been taken out, “and the first time I saw him…” This time he allowed himself to smile. “It was like a blessing from Primus.”

.

.

.

“I’d just spent nearly a vorn working a case, and after it wrapped, my agent,”  _ handler,  _ Jazz thought;  _ he  _ was the agent, “decided I needed a vacation. I was already in Kaon at the end of the job, so he suggested I take in the sights and enjoy the festival.” Which he hadn’t had a problem with, even if attending the festival had been a cover for a quick drop. Vacation?  _ What  _ vacation? If his boss even knew the meaning of the word, Jazz would go swimming in a pool of scraplets. “That’s when I saw him.”

“At the conservatory?” Rung had taken off his glasses to polish them, then set them aside on the table. It made him look more approachable, friendly, and Jazz appreciated the gesture, even if it was designed to manipulate him. “He told me that was where you met.”

“Yeah. I was super lost,” after fleeing the enforcers who’d somehow twigged to the suspicious nature of his contact and come after them, “and he looked like a mech who knew what he was about so I went up and asked for directions.” Jazz grinned. “Helped that he was gorgeous. I don’t think I’d ever seen someone so beautiful.”

Rung smiled at the romantic falsehood. Not that Prowl wasn’t beautiful, but, well. That was basically the only measure of truth to the story. “What encouraged you to stay with him the rest of the day?”

Besides using him as a cover to avoid the enforcers? “When I asked if he knew a good place to eat, he offered to show me the way in person. I took him up on it, and…” Jazz trailed off, at a loss to explain. “You ever met someone who’s so calm and collected you just feel comfortable around them? That was Prowl. And that  _ voice.  _ Mech, I could have listened to him read a systems directory and still had a good time, but it was so much better than that. He’s so clever. Brilliant, subtle sense of humor, and so engaging to talk to.” Jazz caught himself looking longingly at the door out to the waiting room where Prowl was sitting, stiff and cold, in the comfortable, padded chairs. “I miss talking with him.”

“Have you tried to engage him in conversation?”

“Of course!” Jazz’s first line of attack with anyone was to talk to them, but Prowl had become withdrawn, distant; unresponsive. “I’m not sure when it started exactly, but it was like he was always tired. He acted like my talking to him was annoying him, distracting him from work, giving him processor aches.” Those damn processor aches. Jazz had been thrilled when Prowl suggested they go to a doctor, but he’d been hoping for a medical specialist, not a therapist. “I don’t like seeing him hurting, and when it looked like all I was doing was stressing him out…” 

Rung nodded, remarkably keeping the movement free of any judgment. “Did you tell him you were worried about him?”

“I tried to. He just brushed me off, told me it was just a hard job he was working on and that he’d be fine once it was over.”

“And when did that job end?”

“Last winter.” And things hadn’t been fine when it ended. “Maybe if I’d been home more…” But that hadn’t been an option. No one at the “office” knew Jazz was living with a partner, and they wouldn’t have made concessions even if they had. “Part of the reason we worked so well together at first was how much we both travel for our jobs. He understood me and I understood him.”

“I see.” The glasses went back on, and Jazz didn’t know if that was supposed to be good or bad. “Come with me,” he said, and stood to lead the way back out to Prowl.

.

.

.

“From what I’ve heard so far,” Rung said, looking at the way the two mechs were standing slightly closer to each other now than they had been at the beginning of the session, “it’s clear to me that you both have a desire to improve your relationship.” Relief eased some of the tension from both their frames. “However, your lifestyles lend themselves to communication problems, and you’ve fallen into a pattern that exacerbates those difficulties.”

“But it’s something we can work on, right?” Jazz looked between him and Prowl, a cautious smile on his lips. “Right?”

“That is why we are here.”

“And it is why I would like to continue seeing you both,” Rung said. “Not just together, but separately as well. I promise I will not share any secrets you chose to reveal in confidence to me with your partner,” he assured, “but individual sessions are often very helpful in situations like this.” 

“Because it’s easier to be honest one on one?”

“Precisely.” Rung didn’t comment on the skepticism he heard in Jazz’s voice. “And once you are more comfortable being honest with yourselves, it will become easier to be honest with each other.”

“I see.” Prowl’s expression barely changed, but if he had to label the emotion flickering in those hard optics, Rung would have called it doubt. “We will schedule additional appointments on our way out. Thank you for your time.”

“I look forward to seeing you both again,” Rung said, waiting until they had gone to sink his head into his hands. What a mess. The desire to make this work was there… but not the trust.

He looked up with a sigh at the long road ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Now continued in [Secret Identities](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36584451)


	11. Mermaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've read so many fabulous mer AUs in this fandom, I can only hope I've managed to come up with something worthy of them :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: The food chain exists. Things are not graphically eaten though

The whales were moving out of range. With an elated mix of sorrow and joy at their departure, Jazz bid them goodbye, his call echoing behind them as they continued on their journey. Then he rocketed up to the surface to breach, leaping and dancing beneath the sunset until all his pent-up energy was spent.

“You done now?” Ricochet asked as he drifted back down. “One of these days you’re going to get yourself lost pulling stunts like that. Or worse.”

“There aren’t any boats out here,” Jazz said, but didn’t downplay the risk. Not with Ricochet. His black and white hide still bore the scars of his captivity, and Jazz impulsively rushed forward to wrap his arms around his torso. “Promise. I looked.”

“Better have.” Larger and more muscular than Jazz, Ricochet’s arms closed around his shoulders and squeezed tightly. The floated together like that for a long moment before he let go. “Come on. They want to move again.”

“Already?”

“See? This is why I worry about you.” Ricochet slapped Jazz’s side with a fin as he took off toward the rest of the pod. Jazz sped after him, clicking his displeasure. “Yeah? Want me to stop? Start paying better attention then!”

“I pay attention!” Jazz insisted, catching up enough to tag Rico’s dorsal fin with his hand. “I pay plenty of attention.”

“To the whales, sure.” Ricochet slowed, and they continued swimming side by side at a more sedate pace. “But it’s dangerous to get so caught up in their songs that you miss everything else around you.”

Jazz didn’t even try to deny that one. “They’re just so beautiful,” he said, remembering. “When they sing, I just…” He trailed off. There weren’t words for how it made him feel. “I love it.”

“I know you do. But their songs aren’t for us, and one of these days you’re going to drift into a deep current and get carried off listening to them.”

“I’ll be careful,” Jazz promised yet again. It wouldn’t make a difference. Rico would still worry, and Jazz would still listen to the whales. But it was enough to placate him for now. “So where are we going?”

“Following the herring. They’re moving farther along the coast.”

“Herring?” Bleh. Jazz was sick of herring. “I’d rather hunt salmon.”

“You and me both,” Ricochet agreed with a resigned groan. “But it’s a big school, and ‘it would be foolish to waste—’”

“‘—the feast Primus has put before us’,” Jazz finished the quote, and they both laughed. Their pod leader was a practical mer, for the most part, but it was impossible not to poke fun at his devotion sometimes. “Alright then. Herring it is.”

And herring it was. So much herring that by the end of the week, Jazz was so desperate for  _ anything  _ else that he decided to try using bits of dead herring to lure in some sea birds. Swimming away from the pod so they wouldn’t scare away or steal anything he managed to attract, Jazz set his trap and waited.

At first he wasn’t sure it was going to work. He floated beneath the surface, watching the dead fish bob on the waves. Nothing was happening… 

_ Aha! _

Wish a powerful flick of his tail, Jazz shot up and snatched the unlucky bird in his hands before it could fly away. It was tiny, relatively speaking, but so were herring, and all Jazz cared about was that it didn’t  _ taste  _ like herring. 

Ricochet probably would have laughed at him for the feathers he got stuck in his teeth.

Several birds later and Jazz was a very happy mer. He finished off the last one and just let himself drift, using a long primary as a toothpick. What should he do next? He wasn’t quite sleepy enough for a nap, even if he didn’t have the energy for wavedancing. With a sigh, he released his feather and watched it twist in the subtle current. He missed the whales and their songs. 

At some point he must have fallen asleep without meaning to, because the next thing Jazz knew it was dark. The sun had set some time ago judging by the brightness of the stars when he came up to look, and when he ducked back beneath the waves and let out an inquiring chirp, he didn’t get a response from his pod.

Great. Ricochet was going to kill him.

Jazz let out another chirp, louder this time. How far had he drifted? It couldn’t be that much, even if no one was answering his calls. He just needed to swim back along the coast until he came in range and someone answered him… 

Wait. Someone  _ was  _ answering him.

Jazz stopped moving, captivated by the sound. It wasn’t anyone from his pod; no, this wasn’t a call, it was a melody. A melody singing through the sea to brush over Jazz’s skin in a caress unlike any whale song he’d ever heard before. Jazz strained to hear more, to identify everything that was different about it. No chorus, this; Jazz was listening to a soloist, an individual, singing at an oddly high frequency. He’d never heard a whale with such a high-pitched voice, and while he recognized bits and pieces of the refrain as cobbled together from the songs of other pods from all across the sea, there was something haunting and lonely about it. 

Unable to restrain his curiosity, Jazz swam toward the sound. He kept listening, fixing the song in his mind until he was confident he wouldn’t make a mess of it, then opened his mouth to sing out a harmony.

The song faltered, and for a second Jazz worried that he’d frightened the singer off. Then it continued, resonant and powerful, and Jazz shivered with it as they sang together. The whole ocean seemed to warm as the loneliness in that voice faded, transforming into something Jazz could only express in song.  _ I’m here,  _ he sang, pouring his emotions into the notes.  _ I’m here, and you’re here, and this moment, this music, is beautiful. _

A shadow passed overhead, visible only as a dark shape blocking out the stars. Jazz gasped as he took in its size, easily three times the length of his own body, maybe even four. It rolled slowly, ponderously, and Jazz could see the outline of broad, sweeping fins against the backdrop of the cosmos. And there, at one end, the suggestion of a head and torso. Arms trailing gracefully through the water. A hand waving with the music.

_ Hello. _


	12. Royalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone always has to kidnap the Prince. Jazz doesn't like finding out what that entails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Kidnapping, imprisonment, threats of violence and murder toward what are essentially children, Transformers with developmental stages (youngling, mechling, etc.)

Jazz had listened to all the warnings at the beginning of the trip to the seaside: Don’t wander off or you’ll get kidnapped. Don’t go anywhere with anyone you don’t know or you’ll get kidnapped. Never leave your guard behind or you’ll get kidnapped. When he’d asked what getting kidnapped meant, he’d been told it meant being tied up, locked in a dungeon, beaten, starved… or  _ worse! _ The servants had refused to elaborate on what “or  _ worse”  _ meant, but something about the way they whispered it suggested it didn’t mean being killed.

Now that he had been kidnapped, Jazz wondered if he was about to find out. So far he had indeed been tied up and locked in a dungeon, and while no one had exactly beaten him, the mech who’d dumped him in the cell had been pretty rough, and he hadn’t bothered to leave him any fuel. Intellectually Jazz knew he was far from starving yet, but the thought didn’t bring him any comfort where he lay alone on the bare stone floor, aching, hungry, and confused.

“Being kidnapped sucks,” he complained.

“Aww, are th’accommodations not t’yer liking? I’m  _ so  _ sorry, yer highness. Lemme get right on that — not.”

Jazz’s helm jerked up at the thickly accented voice. “Who are you?” he asked, struggling with his bound arms and feet to sit up and face his visitor. “Why did you kidnap me?”

“Didn’t do nothin’ of th’sort.” A youngling roughly his own age stepped into the minimal light cast by the lantern hanging on the wall just outside his prison. “Th’boss’s th’one kidnapped ya.”

“Okay… who is he then, and why did he kidnap me?” None of the warnings he’d been given said what the point of kidnapping was or how long it lasted, but Jazz decided he’d had enough of it already. “And how do I get him to un-kidnap me?”

“Un-kidnap ya?” The other youngling laughed nastily. “Y’don’t get  _ un- _ kidnapped, dumbaft. Only way outta this cell’s if ya get ransomed or rescued, and that ain’t happenin’.”

Ransomed? Jazz didn’t know what that word meant, but he did know what a rescue was and that his guards would be mounting one for him. “Says who?”

“Says me. And th’boss. He’s been workin’ on this plan ever since th’announcement y’were comin’ here fer th’season, and now that we finally got ya, ain’t no way we’re lettin’ ya go.”

“Not… ever?” Jazz was starting to feel afraid. “But I want to go home.”

“Aww, y’wanna go home? Back t’yer cushy life in th’capital? I bet ya do. But so do we, and yer our ticket inta th’castle.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means,” a deeper voice said from the shadows, making Jazz jerk back in surprise and fall over in an unbalanced heap, “that I’ll be handsomely rewarded for recovering the ‘prince’ after his ordeal at the hands of a ruthless band of criminals.” The mech who stepped forward was an ugly mix of yellow and purple, and looked nothing like the youngling beaming at his side. In fact, now that Jazz was looking… “Not a bad likeness, is he? I’ll have to make a few tweaks now that we have the original model for comparison, but not as many as I’d feared.”

Original model? “You mean he’s supposed to be me?” His colors were all wrong, but those were easy enough to change. If he ignored the blacks, reds, and yellows and just looked at the shapes, Jazz could all too easily see his own silhouette staring back at him, from the fins on his helm down to the position of his tires. 

“Whaddaya mean, s’pposed t’be? I  _ am  _ ya. And that means,” the youngling made that nasty laugh again, “yer no one.”

“I’m not no one! I’m Jazz,” Jazz said, fear making his voice sound louder in his own audios. Or maybe that was just the stone cage around him making his words echo. “I’m the crown prince of the realm!”

“Of course you are,” the larger mech said, patting the other youngling’s shoulder. “Like I said, I’ll be a real hero when I rescue ‘you’ and return ‘you’ to the king.”

“I can’t  _ wait  _ t’see m’creator again. Oh, I was soooooo scared,” the youngling said, pitching his voice into a mocking, exaggerated sob. It was obnoxious, insulting, and, most disturbingly of all, completely unaccented. “I don’t ever want to leave the castle again! I’ll stay inside and attend all of my lessons and be the best heir you could ever ask for just like a good little prince.” His gold visor flashed wickedly as he dropped the imitation. “I’ve really been lookin’ forward t’this, y’know. All th’pain’a all the mods’ll be worth it when I’m livin’ it up in yer place.”

“No! That’s a stupid plan!” Jazz tried to get back up on his knees, only to topple over painfully onto his face, cutting his chin on the stone. “It won’t work! Let me go!”

“Sorry,” the mech said, as insincere an apology as Jazz had ever heard. “I’ve invested too much in this scam to let it fall apart now. But don’t worry. Once I’m sure he’s a convincing enough replica, we’ll put you out of your misery.”

Jazz went cold. They were going to kill him. They were going to keep him alive to study him like some kind of mechanimal so they could fool his creator into thinking he’d come home, and then they were going to kill him.

“Heh. Think ya broke him,” his off-color doppelganger said, and Jazz realized the distressed sound echoing off the walls was coming from him. He tried to stifle it, but couldn’t; the choked-up keen refused to stop. “Let’s go. I don’t wanna stand around listenin’ t’him sob about ‘is bad luck.”

It seemed the larger mech agreed, because they both turned and walked away. Jazz heard a heavy door slam somewhere out in the darkness, and the sound broke what little control he had over his vocalizer. He broke down and sobbed, screaming, begging for someone to hear him.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, his cries eventually tapering off out of a lack of energy to sustain them. All Jazz knew was that this was definitely “or worse”, and it wasn’t fair. 

“…Being kidnapped  _ really  _ sucks,” he mumbled into the stone.

“I’m sorry,” a new voice said from beyond the cell. This one actually did sound sorry, and Jazz rolled onto his side to watch as its owner stepped into view. Not another youngling, but not a fully upgraded adult either, the mechling knelt down beside the bars and pushed a small cube through the grate at the bottom. “Here. Drink. You need to keep up your strength.”

“Why? So I can live long enough for them to kill me?” Jazz’s engine hiccupped again. “I don’t want to die. I want to go home.”

“I know.” The mechling let out a soft, defeated sigh. “I wanted to go home too.”

“You… you were kidnapped too?” Jazz looked up and saw the mechling nod. “But you’re not locked up. Or dead.”

The mechling huffed a short, humorless laugh. “They said they were going to kill me, but Swindle never misses a chance to make money. Keeping me alive was more profitable than killing me, as long as I was willing to work.”

“You mean you’re helping him? On purpose?” Jazz drew back, suddenly angry. “Go away!”

Another sigh. “I’m sorry.” He turned away. “Just… don’t give up yet.”

“Like  _ you  _ didn’t?” Jazz spat.

The proto-doorwings on the mechling’s back flinched. “I didn’t give up,” he said, not looking back. “But it’s not like being let out of my cell means I can just walk out the front door.” 

“That sounds like giving up.”

“Well, it’s not!” Now he whirled back around, ice blue optics flashing. “It’s biding my time. Strategizing. Waiting for an opportunity.”

Oh. Maybe he wasn’t on their side after all? Jazz pounced on what looked like an opportunity to him. “Help me escape then,” he said, pushing himself up on his elbows to crawl up to the bars. “My guards will be looking for me. If I tell them you helped me they’ll rescue us both.”

Doubt flickered in those optics, but so did what might have been hope. “I don’t know…” 

“You can’t tell me not to give up if you’re going to give up,” Jazz said firmly. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m not giving up,” the mechling insisted. “But I can’t make any promises.”

“Sure you can. You can promise you’ll try.”

A small, cautious smile spread across the mechling’s face. “I guess I can do that.” He reached through the bars, brushing his fingers over the cut on Jazz’s chin. Jazz winced, but it didn’t start bleeding again. “Alright. I promise that I’ll try.”

“Wait!” Jazz called as he got up to leave. “Who are you?”

“I’m no one,” he answered, but this time he sounded more frustrated than defeated. “Just like you.”

“I’m not no one, and neither are you,” Jazz declared, drawing himself up as much as he could. “I’m Jazz. What’s your name?”

“I… It’s Prowl,” he said, like he was only just remembering it. His optics brightened with the memory and he stood a little straighter. “My name is Prowl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Now continues in [Childhood Friends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36644199)


	13. Fake Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl thinks making up an imaginary lover will make life at work easier. Cue things not going as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Possibly a bit of secondhand embarrassment, if you're sensitive to that

It was easier, Prowl had discovered, to avoid his coworker’s attempts to “fix” his nonexistent love life if he pretended to be in a relationship. A long,  _ long  _ distance relationship. No, you can’t set me up on blind dates, we’re exclusive. Yes, that means we’re serious. No, we don’t get to see each other very often, but of course we keep in touch. 

_ Whether or not we have phone sex is none of your business. _

Still, if invasive personal questions were the worst Prowl had to deal with, he’d consider it a win. He’d made up a story about having met his “lover” at his previous post, claiming they were “making it work” despite his transfer. He tried to give out as few details as possible to avoid the risk, however unlikely, of anyone digging up personnel files and outing him in the lie when no one he’d worked with matched his description, but as time went on he let little things “slip” to placate the most persistent busybodies.

He was moderately appalled when Sideswipe came in one day with a police sketch of his “partner” based on all the little things he’d said. “Ta da!” the red menace said proudly, slapping the sketch down on his desk. “So? You didn’t make it easy, but we finally had enough to cobble this together! Is it a good likeness?”

Prowl blinked stupidly at the handsome face staring up at him, recognizing all his hints in the sketch. There was the black helm with minibot audio horns, the bright blue optic band, and— well, he’d never said anything about full, sensuous lips, but there they were, quirked in a fetching grin. “It’s a terrible mug shot,” he finally managed to say. “He’s smiling.”

“But you said he’s always smiling!” 

“He wouldn’t be in a mug shot.” Prowl sighed. “Sunstreaker drew this for you, I presume?”

“Of course.”

“He’d better not have been on the clock.” 

“Please, I know better than to pester him at work. He drew this at home last night. Sooo~,” Sideswipe said eagerly. “Is it him?”

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Prowl finally went with a vague shrug. “There’s… some resemblance.”

“Yes!” Sideswipe whooped loudly, drawing the attention of several mechs nearby. “We’ll find you yet, Mystery Mech!”

“Good luck,” Prowl muttered as he ran off. It was impossible to find a mech who didn’t exist.

He nearly tripped coming into work the next morning when he saw the mug shot up on the office’s “Most Wanted” board. 

“Sideswipe,” he growled out once he tracked the mech down, “what is the meaning of this?”

“What is the meaning of what?” Sideswipe said, putting on his best I’m-totally-innocent face. 

Prowl wasn’t fooled for a second. “You know what. Now explain yourself.”

“Ohhh,  _ that,”  _ Sideswipe said, poorly stifling a giggle. “I just thought it’d be fun, you know? Get everyone involved in solving the mystery?”

“He’s not a mystery, Sideswipe! My,” nonexistent, “personal life isn’t a case to be solved for your amusement. Take it down,” Prowl demanded, “and leave it alone. Got it?”

Sideswipe’s smile drooped. “Yes, sir,” he said, deflated. “But… things are still going well between you, right?”

“Peachy.” 

“Okay. Good.” The smile, though a bit subdued, was back. “We just want you to be happy.”

“I’ll be happy if you drop it,” Prowl reiterated, then left Sideswipe to take care of the mug shot. This was getting ridiculous! No one else’s relationship status ever came under this much scrutiny.

“Sorry about that. I told him not to put it up but he wouldn’t listen to me, and when I took down the first one he just put another one up.” Bluestreak looked apologetic when Prowl glanced up at him. “He made a bunch of copies, they’re all over the building not just on the bulletin board.”

They were what? Prowl bit back a groan. “Wonderful. Thank you for letting me know.”

“You’re welcome. But, you know, maybe now you could keep a picture of him on your desk? It’s nice to surround yourself with pictures of the people you care about.”

“Like you do?” Prowl asked, giving his coworker’s thoroughly collaged workstation a pointed look. “I prefer to keep things simple and functional.”

Bluestreak shrugged. “It was just a thought. Sometimes a smiling face on the corner of your desk can really help out when you’re having a rough day, especially if it’s someone you don’t get to see very often.”

“I don’t need physical reminders,” Prowl said, less annoyed with Bluestreak than with Sideswipe. His suggestion wasn’t really about his nonexistent lover specifically; it was just another volley in his long-standing campaign to get him to personalize his desk. “Don’t you have something you could be doing?”

“Talking to you doesn’t count as doing something?” But Bluestreak backed off, returning to his desk. “The defensive tactics training seminar got bumped up to next week, by the way,” he said, suddenly all business. “They moved it because of a scheduling conflict for one of the presenters, but they didn’t adjust my schedule so I had the right shift off so you should probably check yours just in case they didn’t do yours either.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Prowl had been looking forward to the seminar, and he didn’t want to miss it.

By the time the seminar rolled around, Prowl was  _ really  _ looking forward to it. Sideswipe swore he’d made a good faith effort to take down all the posters he’d made, but Prowl had been finding them in odd places around the precinct all week. By now there wasn’t a single person in the building who didn’t know what his supposed lover looked like, and Prowl had been fielding questions from everyone about him. He was starting to think it would be worth staging a trip to go visit him just to get a vacation from the office.

The seminar brought people in from all over the city, and even some from out of town. The presenters this year included several notable speakers, and Prowl was particularly eager to hear Commissioner Ironhide review the new features that had come out on the standard rifles.

He had just come into the lecture hall to find a seat when Sideswipe ambushed him. “Why didn’t you  _ tell  _ me he was going to be here?!” he practically squealed, actually going so far as to grab Prowl and shake him. “You should have said something!”

Said something about what? Prowl pried Sideswipe’s fingers off of his arms. “Why didn’t I tell you  _ who  _ was going to be here?” he asked, wondering where Sunstreaker was. Sideswipe needed a babysitter, and Prowl didn’t want to be the one to do the job.

_ “Him,”  _ Sideswipe stage-whispered meaningfully, bouncing with excitement. “He’s right there!”

Prowl followed the line of his finger, searching through the crowd for what could have possibly—

Oh.

Oh no.

Prowl had never seen the mech before in his life, but there was no mistaking his resemblance to the slagging sketch. 

“Okay, I know what you’re thinking,” he started to say, hoping he could convince Sideswipe it was just a coincidence, but Sideswipe had already grabbed him again and started shoving him toward the mech.

“No, I know what  _ you  _ were thinking,” he said gleefully. There were too many people; Prowl couldn’t pull away without bumping into anyone, and he didn’t want to spill anyone’s drinks. “You thought you could pretend you didn’t know each other all night and then sneak off after the seminar was over! Well, forget it. I’m on to you now, and that means you don’t have to play keep-away for the sake of appearances. Hey!” he called out, and several mechs, including the Polyhexian with the blue visor, looked up. “I caught him for you!” With one last shove, Sideswipe sent Prowl right into the mech’s arms. “Ohmygodyou’resocuuuuuute!” he squealed, then ran off into the crowd. Probably looking for a good vantage point so he could take pictures. “You can thank me later!”

Everyone was staring at them. Prowl had never felt so mortified in his life.

“You look like you’re about to fall over,” the mech holding him said, and it was all Prowl could do to nod. “Come on. Let’s sit you down somewhere.”

At first Prowl thought the mech was just going to lower him into one of the seats in the lecture hall, but instead he shifted so he could wrap an arm around his waist to support him and led him back out into the corridor. Prowl wanted nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow him. 

“So,” the mech said after finding them a private alcove with a bench. Prowl sank onto it gratefully, his whole frame trembling with a mix of anger and embarrassment. “I’d love to know what that was about, but I think the first thing I should be asking is, are you okay?”

“I’m so sorry,” Prowl apologized. “This is all a terrible misunderstanding. My coworker mistook you for someone else.”

“Oh, I’d figured that much,” the mech chuckled. He had a beautiful voice, Prowl couldn’t help but notice. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Are you okay?”

Was he? Right about now Prowl felt that if he didn’t straight up die of humiliation he was going to go to jail for homicide. “I will be,” he said, venting in deep, calming cycles until the tremors faded. “Sideswipe, on the other hand…”

“That your coworker? Well, maybe try to hold off on murdering him until after the police conference full of police is over. You know, so all the police in attendance don’t arrest you?” The mech grinned, and up close he looked even better than the mech in the sketch. They weren’t an exact match; the vents on his helm were positioned differently, and his optic band came to a downward point in the center of his face rather than cutting up over his nose, but on the whole… “I’m Jazz, by the way. You?”

“Prowl.”

“Well then. Prowl.” Jazz smiled and sat down on the other side of the bench facing him. “Who did your coworker think I was?”

The question could have been accusing, but Jazz didn’t sound like he was trying to make fun of him. He seemed amused by the situation, certainly, but not at Prowl’s expense. Prowl sighed. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Keeping secrets is my job,” Jazz answered, flashing a badge that revealed he was in Internal Affairs. “Of course, so is finding them out, and now you’ve got me curious.”

Amused, curious, and friendly. Of all the mechs for Sideswipe to shove him at, it could have been a lot worse. Prowl actually found himself smiling a little as he explained, “I’ve been pretending to be in a long distance relationship to get my coworkers to stop trying to set me up on blind dates. I made up a story about how we met at work, and that we kept in touch after I transferred. You resemble the physical description I gave of my supposed partner, so when Sideswipe saw you…”

“Wait. Let me get this straight. You made up a lover to get your coworkers to leave you alone, and now they think we’re dating?” Jazz laughed, a rich, happy sound. “That’s fantastic!”

“It’s embarrassing,” Prowl said, glad he wasn’t offended. “I tried to tell him I didn’t know you, but Sideswipe can be a bit overzealous when he gets excited.”

“That’s one word for it,” Jazz agreed. “So, now that we’ve got that all cleared up, what are we going to do about it?”

“We? No, please, you don’t have to do anything. The misunderstanding is my fault, and I can take care of it.”

“I’m sure you can. But… wouldn’t it be more fun to play along with it?”

“Play along— what?” Prowl stared at him, not sure he’d heard him right. “You mean you want to— to go back in there and pretend we really are dating?”

“Why not?” Jazz’s visor sparkled with mirth. “I’m not here with anyone else who’d bust us, and it’d keep Sideswipe off your back for the rest of the evening. What do you say?”

Prowl wanted to say it was crazy. Impossible. A completely awful idea. But Jazz made it sound like it could almost be fun, and the hand that slipped into his was warm and encouraging. “I say, I’m happy to see you again after so long.”

Jazz stood with a chuckle, taking Prowl’s other hand and pulling him to his feet. “I’ve missed you, Prowler,” he said, and smiled when Prowl’s doors twitched at the nickname. “Now come on. Let’s go in and find a seat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Now continues in [Office/Workplace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36731385)


	14. Reincarnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone thinks Prowl is the reincarnation of a great sage. Is he though? And does it even matter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

The priests all claimed he was the reincarnation of the ancient sage. Prowl wasn’t sure what he thought about that, but what he thought didn’t really matter. As soon as he’d passed what passed for a test to determine that he was The One, that was it. His whole life had been upended, rearranged to allow for dozens of new duties and a completely different regimen of training.

It wasn’t all bad. Prowl had already wanted to join the temple before the Revelation, and this was a sort of fast-track right to the heart of it. He got to study with all the best masters and had access to all the hidden luxuries in the complex, all without enduring the vorns of rigorous devotion required of a novitiate. But that was part of the problem, because now, as he sat in the garden of the inner sanctuary surrounded by the exquisitely sculpted crystals, he felt like he didn’t deserve to be here. 

He hadn’t earned it, and he felt like a fraud.

With a sigh, Prowl gave up on his meditation. Maybe he’d have better luck ordering his thoughts in the dojo.

The circuit-su master looked up and bowed when Prowl walked in. “Master,” he greeted him, and Prowl winced. “Ah. Not feeling much like the master today?”

“No.” With anyone else Prowl would have left it at that, not wanting to deal with the reassurances that he just needed to dedicate himself more to recalling his past life, but Jazz had never said anything like that to him. “I never do, and my doubt is interfering with my meditation.”

“You know doubt will interfere here as much as it does in the garden,” Jazz said, but he gestured Prowl to take up a starting position on the mat.

“But it will interfere differently.” And the physical exertion would at least give him something else to focus on. “Third form?”

Jazz frowned thoughtfully. “Fourth, I think,” he said after a moment, and took up the appropriate stance. “Begin.”

Prowl launched himself into the form. Jazz moved with him easily, blocking, dodging, and countering with a fluidity that, in his current mindset, angered Prowl. Why couldn’t they see what a mistake they had made? He was no master; Jazz wasn’t even trying, outmaneuvering him with so little effort it was laughable. With a shout full of frustration Prowl broke the kata, throwing himself at Jazz in a completely uncoordinated, unthinking attack.

Jazz caught his flailing fists and swept him to the floor, pinning him in under a second. “I don’t think you’re in the right mindset for this,” he said gently. “You’ll wind up hurting yourself.”

“So what if I do?” Prowl said miserably. “Maybe it would help.”

“Prowl,” Jazz said, and hearing his name rather than the undeserved honorific helped him to calm a little. “Injuries may be an occasional part of this learning, but they aren’t something to seek out. Why are you trying to punish yourself?”

“I’m not,” Prowl protested, then caved at the knowing look on Jazz’s face as he helped him to his feet. “Maybe I did come here looking for punishment.”

“Did you stop to consider how unfair that was?” Jazz led Prowl back into the room where all the scrolls of the different martial arts were kept. It felt like a quiet, comfortable sanctuary when the door was closed behind them. “Unfair to me, for one, to use me like that. And unfair to you as well. You don’t deserve to be punished, Prowl.”

“I’m sorry for using you,” Prowl apologized, genuinely sorry for that much. He really hadn’t considered his actions from that angle. “But I—”

“You  _ don’t deserve  _ to be punished,” Jazz repeated. “You haven’t done anything to warrant it.”

“Other than lying to everyone here? Somehow tricking the monks into believing I’m something I’m not?”

“I was unaware you’d done any such thing.”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Prowl glared up at Jazz, challenging him. “Tell me honestly: do  _ you  _ think I’m really Master Yoketron’s reincarnation?”

“Honestly?” Prowl felt his spark shrink. “No. I don’t. But,” Jazz continued, coming over to wrap an arm around Prowl’s shoulders, “I don’t think you’re a bad mech. Your elevation isn’t the result of a deliberate deception on your part, and even if you don’t share the spark of the master,” he smiled, “you do still share many of his qualities.”

Prowl hung his head, simultaneously wanting and not wanting to pull away from the comfort of Jazz’s embrace. “How do you know?”

“I know because of the time we’ve spent together. I’ve seen your work ethic, your determination, your unwavering moral compass. You’re a  _ good mech,  _ Prowl, and from what I’ve seen, you’ll absolutely be worthy of Yoketron’s legacy someday.”

“You really think so?” Prowl looked up hopefully. “Even though I’m not really him?”

“Ah, see, here’s where I prove  _ my  _ unworthiness,” Jazz said with a grin. “I don’t believe anyone could ever be him. Even if his spark really did return from the Well and somehow the priests managed to identify the frame it had taken root in, that mech wouldn’t be Yoketron. We’re more than our sparks, Prowl. We’re our frames and our processors and our experiences.”

“Then you… you don’t just believe I’m not Yoketron’s reincarnation, you don’t believe in reincarnation at all.” That was… 

“Blasphemy, right?” 

“Why tell me?” Jazz was trying to play it off like it was nothing, but Prowl was sure he hadn’t imagined the flicker of fear in the master’s field. “Why tell me something like that?”

“Because I thought it would help you,” Jazz said simply, as though revealing something that could get him excommunicated just for the sake of making him feel better didn’t matter. “You think you’re unworthy to be called a master; well, they call me master and I definitely don’t deserve it.”

“Yes you do!” Prowl blurted out. “Your mastery of circuit-su has nothing to do with whether or not you believe in reincarnation.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Jazz said, and Prowl could see that his immediate defense really had meant a lot to him. “But then, if that’s the case, why can’t you be a master in your own right without being a reincarnated sage?”

Put that way, Prowl struggled to think of one aside from, “I haven’t had enough time to study and train to become a master of anything. Maybe I do have the ability to earn the title,” he said, some of the weight in his spark lifting, “but I haven’t earned it yet.”

“You will,” Jazz said with confidence. “I know you’d feel better if they didn’t call you master already, but maybe there’s another way to look at it: try to hear it as a reminder of what you’re aspiring to instead of an accusation of what you haven’t achieved. They aren’t doing it to mock you, after all.” 

That wasn’t a bad idea. Difficult to implement in practice, Prowl suspected, but definitely worth a try. If nothing else, he felt a lot better just for having talked with Jazz. “Thank you, master.”

Jazz laughed. “Happy to help, master.”

This time Prowl didn’t flinch.


	15. Faction Swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time Prowl tried to desert and escape the war? What if that had gone a little differently?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: offscreen unnamed character deaths

Prowl didn’t remember the crash itself. He  _ did  _ remember being hit; the  _ Peaceful Resolution  _ had rocked with the first impact, and even from inside the ship Prowl had been able to determine they were no longer on the right trajectory to escape the planet. More shots had been fired as the pilot frantically attempted to correct course, and the subsequent damage had resulted in him not even being able to control the ship’s descent over the Manganese Mountains. The last thing Prowl remembered thinking before he blacked out was that he was about to die.

Apparently not.

Groaning in pain, Prowl clawed his way free of the burning wreckage. Aside from the physical aches from his — myriad, his systems informed him — injuries, he felt numb. Part of that was shock. He’d just suffered considerable trauma to his head and his frame, and his processor was struggling to deal with it. But on top of that, on top of the immediate experience of the crash itself, there was the long-term reality of what it meant for his future. It was a reality he wasn’t ready to face.

Falling back on a sort of autopilot, Prowl field-patched the worst of his injuries and got to work searching for other survivors. There weren’t many. Of the hundred and thirteen neutrals on board, only twelve of the bodies Prowl stumbled across were alive. They all huddled together some distance away from the smoldering ship after giving up on finding anyone else, pooling what meager supplies they had on them with what little they’d recovered from the ship.

No one had put themselves forward as a leader yet when the sound of approaching aircraft echoed through the mountains. 

“Think they’re the ones who shot us down?” one of the survivors asked.

“No,” Prowl said, automatically running an analysis. “They may be aligned with whoever shot us down, but the approaching craft is too small to be carrying the kind of artillery that took out the  _ Peaceful Resolution.” _

“Does that mean they’re here to finish us off?” another survivor asked in a flat, emotionless voice, his own shock making him indifferent to their fate. “Or rescue us?”

“Based on the available data, either is equally likely,” Prowl concluded, making no judgment on which would be better. He didn’t know which to hope for.

It wasn’t immediately apparent who had found them when the small vessel came into view. There were no faction symbols on the hull, but that didn’t mean the crew were fellow neutrals. Given how many had managed to flee Cybertron by now, as the  _ Peaceful Resolution _ had been attempting to do, Prowl doubted very much that they were anything but Autobots or Decepticons.

“They’re not firing on us,” someone observed. “That’s a good sign.”

“It just means they’d rather draft us or arrest us for deserting.”

“Can’t arrest you for deserting if you never signed up for their stupid war in the first place.”

Prowl hung his head, glancing down at his bumper where the Autobrand had, until recently, been on prominent display. The others might not have to worry about a court martial if the new arrivals were Autobots, but he did. No matter which faction they proved to be, things weren’t likely to go well for the former member of the Autobot Security Services.

Somewhat grateful to the ongoing shock allowing him to watch the ship settle to the ground without feeling anything stronger than tired resignation, Prowl spared a thought for his former partner. It was just as well, perhaps, that they hadn’t lasted as a couple. If Tumbler had been willing to leave with him, as Prowl had once naively thought he would, he would be here facing the consequences of their failure alongside him. A bitter part of his spark hoped things didn’t work out for him anyway. After first being angry at him for not wanting to become involved, Prowl felt it was extremely unfair for Tumbler to hold his attempts to make a difference from within the system against him — even if he’d ultimately been right about working for Sentinel being a mistake.

At least he wasn’t here to say  _ I told you so. _

The ship’s door opened. The mechs who stepped out had purple insignias emblazoned on their plating.

“Well, well,” a voice called from within the ship. Prowl’s head snapped up, jaw dropping in surprise. “Looks like your little escape attempt didn’t work out so well, did it?”

“Jazz?” Prowl blurted out as the mech himself stepped down to the ground.  _ He  _ wasn’t a Decepticon! Jazz had worked for him in Kaon as a member of the Security Service!

Jazz grinned, bowing theatrically. “The one and only. Fancy meeting you here, boss.”

“Boss?” The other survivors all turned to look at Prowl. “You know him?”

“He thinks he does,” Jazz answered before Prowl could, grin tilting mysteriously. “Come on, mechs. Let’s get you out of here. You all look like you could use a little fuel and some TLC.”

The Decepticons began assisting everyone into the ship. Prowl started to get up, but Jazz walked over and pushed him, gently but firmly, back to the ground. “Wait your turn,” he said. The subtle threat was as surprising as his presence here, and Prowl looked at him suspiciously.

“What is going on, Jazz?”

“I might ask you the same thing.” Jazz leaned nonchalantly on a twisted piece of shorn-off ship plating, to all appearances completely relaxed. Prowl wasn’t buying it for a second; if he so much as twitched, he’d find himself pinned to the ground. “What’s a mech like you doing with a group of neutrals trying to flee the planet?”

“Trying to flee the planet as a neutral Cybertronian,” Prowl answered, admitting to the obvious. “What’s a mech like you doing in the company of Decepticon rescuers-cum-recruiters?”

“Being a Decepticon rescuer-cum-recruiter.” Jazz’s visor darkened, shifting to the deep, dangerous blue that meant things-just-got-serious… and then kept right on going. Prowl watched, stunned, as blue became black, and black became  _ red.  _ “A better question might be, what’s a mech like me been doing with Autobot Security Services?”

“Being a Decepticon double agent,” Prowl realized. “But—”

“How? When? Why?” Jazz laughed, pushing off the rubble and leaning in so close they were practically nose to nose. “Sorry, but those questions will just have to wait. It’s time to get on the shuttle, and that means there’s only one question left.” A finger rapped sharply against the bare metal of Prowl’s bumper. “Did you really defect? Because I’m not here to rescue Autobots.”

“I’m not interested in being recruited,” Prowl frowned, spark racing beneath his plating. “You know my feelings about the Decepticons.”

“I do. Just like I know your feelings about the Autobots.” Jazz’s smile was equal measures wicked and welcoming. “Come on. Give me a chance, Prowl. There’s so much I’ve wanted to tell you.” The fingers on his chest came up to cup his cheek. “And I don’t want to kill you.”

But he would. If he had to.

Prowl drew in a shuddering breath. Who would he be betraying if he went with Jazz? He’d already left the Autobots, as Tumbler had already left him. Caving, he let himself lean into the touch. “I’m listening.”


	16. Neighbors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz didn't realize how attached he'd gotten to the mech who lived next door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

At first Jazz didn’t even know his name. They saw each other every morning — whatever the mech did for a living, he must have had the same shift as Jazz because they always left at the same time — but only ever paused long enough to exchange a polite nod-and-hello on their way out. Jazz couldn’t afford to be late to his job, and the impression he got from the mech he knew only as “the black and white Praxan from the end of the complex” was that he was a bit rigid and withdrawn. Not the sort to appreciate idle chit-chat.

Still, after seeing him and saying hello every morning day in and day out, Jazz began to look forward to their brief greetings. It was a pleasant way to start the day, particularly compared to the way he was treated once he got to work. Despite the prominently displayed name tag Jazz wore at work, the customers all acted like he and his coworkers were barely a step above drones. His neighbor, at least, treated him with common courtesy like he was an intelligent mechanism, and  _ he  _ didn’t even know his name! 

And then, one morning, he wasn’t there.

Doublechecking that he wasn’t running late, Jazz then proceeded to very nearly make himself late waiting for the other mech to show up. He never did, and Jazz spent most of the following shift wondering what had happened to him. Nothing, probably, he told himself. The most likely explanation was that he just wasn’t feeling well and had simply called off work. But Jazz had seen the mech heading in with listless doorwings and dull optics that spoke of exhaustion on more than one occasion; he wasn’t the type to miss work unless something was  _ really  _ wrong, and he’d seemed fine yesterday. So what had happened?

When the end of his shift finally arrived, Jazz rushed to clock out and get home. He knew he was being silly, but he just couldn’t stop worrying, and as soon as he made it back he bypassed the stairs to his own apartment and headed to the end of the complex. He felt ridiculous knocking on the first door, but he didn’t know which unit was his and the management office was already closed (and probably wouldn’t have told him anyway, useless as they were). 

“What do you want?” a suspicious voice called through the door. It didn’t open even a crack. “Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested.”

“I’m not selling anything,” Jazz said quickly, knowing he had the wrong apartment. “Sorry to bother you, I was just looking for the black and white Praxan that lives down here?”

“Upstairs on the end,” the voice said, footsteps already moving away from the door.

“Thank you!” Jazz called, then made for the stairs. 

Feeling even more anxious, but still determined, Jazz walked up to the plain, unadorned door and knocked. “Hello! Anyone home?”

No answer.

Jazz knocked again. “Hello?” 

Nothing.

Jazz’s hand hesitated mid-air. What he was doing was stupid, unasked for, and possibly even creepy. He should just go back to his own apartment and go to sleep. The mech would probably be there just like always in the morning, and wouldn’t Jazz look like a right fool for panicking over a bare acquaintance not showing up one time for something that didn’t even directly involve him?

He knocked one more time anyway. “Hey,” he said, half-hoping the mech wasn’t even home and he was talking to an empty apartment, “I just wanted to check on you since I didn’t see you this morning. Sorry if I disturbed you. Hope you’re okay.”

He’d turned to leave and made it halfway back to the stairs when he heard the door crack open behind him. Quickly Jazz turned around, smiling with relief when he saw the white helm and red chevron peeking out around the jamb. “Hi!”

“Hi,” the mech said, confused. “It… was you that knocked just now, right?”

“Yeah. Sorry, you probably think I’m crazy, I just didn’t see you this morning and I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day so I thought I’d come over and see if there was anything you needed.” Babbling. He was babbling. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s… fine,” the mech said, which sounded an awful lot like a lie to Jazz. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Hey.” Jazz walked up to him, noting the way his fingers were curling anxiously around the edge of the door. He looked about an inch away from collapse. “What happened?”

The door rattled. The mech was using it to hold himself up, and he was straining. 

“Please,” Jazz said, seriously starting to worry now. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to help?”

The look of surprise and gratitude in the mech’s optics was enough to convince Jazz he’d done the right thing. “I need to sit down,” he said, a small hesitant smile on his lips. “Would you like to come in?”

“Sure,” Jazz said, and darted forward to lend a shoulder to help the mech over to the couch as soon as he widened the door. “Want me to warm up some energon for you?” he offered once he’d gotten him settled.

“That… would be very nice,” he said, embarrassment clear on his face. “You should make yourself something as well. I’m sorry for being such a bad host.”

“Don’t even worry about it,” Jazz said, and closed the front door before heading for the kitchen. “You’re not feeling well. There’s no shame in asking for help when you need it.”

“I didn’t think I had anyone I could ask.” 

“Well, you’ve got me.” Jazz smiled over the counter as he got to work. “Hi. I’m Jazz, by the way.”

The black and white Praxan blinked, as though only just realizing they’d never properly introduced themselves. “I’m Prowl.” The mech — Prowl — smiled back. “Hi.”


	17. Sidekick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for the who's who of superheroes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

“Come oooon, who would you pick? You have to pick someone.” 

Prowl sighed as he finished retrieving his cube. “No, Smokescreen, I don’t. The whole concept of having a ‘sidekick’ is completely ridiculous.”

“No it’s not!” Smokescreen followed him back to his usual table, sliding into the unoccupied seat across from him. “It’s fun! The humans say we’re like superheroes, so that means we should have sidekicks. I call dibs on Bumblebee.”

“If the humans say we are all heroes, then Bumblebee can’t be a sidekick.”

“Sure he can! Haven’t you ever read a comic book?” Smokescreen’s doors drooped slightly under the sheer dead weight of Prowl’s unimpressed gaze. “Okay, no, of course you haven’t. Anyway, my point is that sometimes heroes team up, and when they do there’s always one of them who’s in charge, and one who’s the sidekick.”

“By that criteria, I don’t need to choose a sidekick,” Prowl said, wondering what it would take to get out of this conversation. If Smokescreen really wanted to hypothesize about adopting obscure human culture, he should find someone actually interested in said culture. “Optimus Prime is the one in charge, making us all his sidekicks.”

“Oooohh, I hadn’t thought of that,” Smokescreen grinned. “Nice spin.” 

“Wonderful. Does this mean we’re done now?”

“What about when Optimus isn’t around though?” Apparently they weren’t done. Prowl resisted the urge to roll his optics at Smokescreen’s continued musings. “Or wait, I know — Optimus is like Superman: he’s on a level all his own, a paragon of strength and virtue. Meanwhile, you’re Batman: a formidable fighter in your own right, but your real strength is your mind. And any good Batman,” he said smugly, “needs a Robin. So? Who’s it gonna be?”

“Answering that question would require an understanding of the character to draw parallels between him and the Autobots under my command — an understanding I don’t currently have, and am not interested in acquiring,” Prowl said quickly before Smokescreen launch into another explanation. “Perhaps you should go talk to Bumblebee about him being your sidekick.”

“No fun at all, that’s what you are.”

“Aw, don’t be so hard on him,” Jazz drawled, coming up behind Prowl and draping himself over his shoulder. “Not everyone’s into superheroes, and that’s okay.”

“Fi~ne,” Smokescreen said with a wink and an exaggerated sigh. “But you really are missing out.” 

“I’ll live,” Prowl said, breathing his own sigh of relief as Smokescreen vacated his seat and went over to pester another table. “What about you?” he asked Jazz. “It sounds like the sort of thing you’d be into.”

“Am,” Jazz agreed, his shrug lightly jostling the doorwing he was leaning against. “But we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“As long as I don’t wake up tomorrow to find you’ve redone your colors in red, yellow and green.”

“Ha! You  _ do  _ know who Robin is,” Jazz snickered. “Well, don’t you worry. I’m hardly the hero type.”

“But you are my sidekick,” Prowl said, turning his helm to look at him. “Aren’t you?”

“I dunno, Bruce…” Jazz brushed their foreheads together, engine sliding into a subtle, teasing purr. “I think I’m more of a cat than a bird.”


	18. Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When even the circus isn't interesting enough for Jazz...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

He was billed as an acrobat — a master of death defying feats of balance, agility, and coordination. Jazz snorted as he passed by another poster of himself.  _ Death defying my aft.  _ Of course he wasn’t ignorant of the risks he took every night under the big top, but his acts were all routines he’d been doing so long now he could have performed them in his sleep, and he always worked with a safety net. What was so death defying about that? 

Now, stripped of his bright, gaudy stage paint, Jazz was able to slip away from the hustle and bustle of the tent unnoticed. Once outside he quickly took to the rooftops, navigating by what he could only describe as instinct. Leaping over alleys, skirting around chimneys, cartwheeling across the high-tension wires strung between buildings; this.  _ This  _ was the feeling he craved in his unsatisfying performances. The rush, the speed, the freedom to go where he wanted, do what he wanted, to not be confined to the same prescribed set of moves that no longer held any challenge for him.

When he’d first signed up, Jazz had never expected joining the circus would be so…  _ restrictive. _

He didn’t stop moving until he finally began to feel the strain, pushing himself and his cables right up to the point of shuddering collapse. Tumbling gracefully onto a garden roof deck, Jazz let himself come to a stop, sprawled out among the potted crystals. Venting hard, he gazed up at the stars winking overhead in the perfectly cloudless sky.

“Is someone the— oh! Are you alright? Do you need me to call someone? Hold on, I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

Oops. He hadn’t meant to frighten anyone. Jazz propped himself up on his elbows and grinned at the startled Praxan standing over him. “No need, mech,” he said cheerfully. “I’m fine. Just need a moment to catch my breath.”

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Black and white doorwings lowered from a position of alarm into one of concern. “I heard a noise and thought one of the pots had blown over, but then I saw you laying there…” 

“Totally fine,” Jazz assured him. “Like I said, just taking a short rest before I continue my evening stroll.”

“Evening stroll?” The Praxan’s optics narrowed suspiciously. “You don’t live in this building. How did you get up here?”

Aww, did the mech think he was a thief? Jazz chuckled. “Down here, actually. I jumped from up there,” he said, waving at the taller building behind them. “I’m not here to steal anything or hurt anyone, promise.”

“Then… what  _ are  _ you doing here?”

“Like I said — catching my breath.” Jazz pushed himself the rest of the way into a seated position and patted the ground beside him. “Care to join me?”

After visibly weighing his options, the Praxan did just that. “Seems an odd place for a stroll,” he said, most of the suspicion in his optics replaced by curiosity. “Most people prefer to walk on the ground, not parkour over rooftops.”

“Not me. Though I’m not actually a traceur,” Jazz corrected. Sure he did parkour-like moves sometimes, but professionally, “I’m an aerialist.”

“Oh?” And now the suspicion was completely gone, entirely supplanted by curiosity and interest. “Like the ones in the circus? There’s a new one that just came to town, you know. I’ve heard their performers are excellent.”

“So the posters say,” Jazz said, masking his frustration behind a shrug. He and the others all had  _ way  _ more talent than the shows let them display, though no one else seemed to be as bothered by that as he was. “Have you seen the show yet?”

“No,” the mech said, though it was immediately clear from his tone that he wanted to. “I wasn’t able to get a ticket.”

“At all?” That was odd; Jazz knew they hadn’t sold out.

“Not on my night off.”

Ahh. “That sucks. When’s your night off?”

“Tomorrow, but the only tickets left were bought up by scalpers before I could get one.” The mech sighed. “I can’t afford the markup, even if I didn’t have a problem with buying from them on principle.” 

“I feel you on that.” Jazz hated scalpers too. “Tell you what though, I know someone with an extra ticket he’s not going to be able to use. If you want, I can leave it for you in the mailroom.”

“Really? You would do that?” The Praxan’s doors twitched eagerly. It was adorable. “How much do I—”

“You don’t have to give me anything,” Jazz said, smiling at the mech’s excitement. “Just your name so I know what to put on the envelope.”

“Oh! Of course.” The mech smiled back at him. “It’s Prowl.”

“Prowl. Got it.” Jazz hopped to his feet, offering a hand to help Prowl up. “I’m Jazz, by the way. Hope you enjoy the show!” And with that, he skipped over to the edge of the garden and leapt from the rooftop, catching himself on the fire escape and using it to vault across the alley to the next building across the way.

When he glanced back just before swinging out of sight, he saw Prowl watching him with a look of awe on his face.

Oh yeah. He’d figured him out. Now the only question was: would he make use of the backstage pass Jazz was going to leave in his mailbox?

Jazz hoped so. It’d be fun to show him some of the tricks he wasn’t allowed to do in the ring.


	19. Secret Identities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of [Secret Agent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36321330), aka the one where Prowl and Jazz are Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: violence, gun fight, attempted murder, significant property damage, cursing, angst

Jazz sped away from the restaurant, cursing. His conjunx was nowhere to be seen, because of course he wasn’t. Calculating son of a glitch; he’d stayed just long enough to try to blow him up, then slipped away in the ensuing chaos. The only part of the whole thing that surprised Jazz at this point was that he’d made the attempt personally. Why hadn’t he called one of his other agents to come in and take him out? That was what you did when you needed to burn an agent, wasn’t it? So why hadn’t he?

Unable to restrain himself, Jazz pulled up Prowl’s frequency.

_ “Prowl speaking.” _

Jazz huffed out a short laugh at the perfectly composed greeting. He  _ knew  _ who was calling.  _ “So,”  _ he said, not bothering with any pleasantries of his own.  _ “That’s the second time today you’ve tried to kill me.”  _

_ “Oh, come on,”  _ Prowl drawled in that infuriating, patronizing tone Jazz hated so much.  _ “It was just a little bomb.” _

Just a little— How could he be so calm about this?!  _ “I want you to know,”  _ Jazz hissed over the line,  _ “that I’m going home and I’m going to burn everything I ever bought you.” _

_ “I’ll race you there.” _

The line went dead.

“Can’t believe he hung up on me,” Jazz muttered, gunning his way up the entrance ramp onto the freeway. Then he realized what he’d just said and had to laugh at himself. Prowl hanging up on him was the  _ least  _ of his problems right now. Having his conjunx of five years — six, he heard Prowl’s voice correcting him — out for his spark was a little more important than their ongoing communication issues.

How was this even happening? He’d still been in shock when he’d gone to infiltrate the office, half expecting to be wrong. Surely he hadn’t been stupid enough to  _ marry  _ the mech who’d been handing out his orders for the past  _ decade _ without ever suspecting a  _ thing! _ But there he’d been, in the command center, delivering the ultimatum to get out or get burned. 

Which hadn’t been a decision at all, really. Jazz knew a setup when he saw one, and his last mission had been designed to get him killed. Prowl had already tried to burn him once, and he wasn’t about to stop until he’d succeeded in tying up whatever loose end he thought Jazz represented. Like a failed marriage, apparently. Or a cover that had served its purpose.

Jazz felt his spark twist at the thought. Had Prowl ever really loved him?

He was calling again before he realized it.

_ “Are you already there?” _

Surprised he’d answered, Jazz struggled to compose his thoughts.  _ “Hey. First time we met. What was your first thought?” _

_ “You tell me.” _

He sounded so flat and emotionless…  _ “I thought,”  _ Jazz began, then hesitated. Did it even matter?  _ “I thought you looked like coming home.”  _ It sounded so stupid, but,  _ “I don’t know how else to say it.”  _

_ “And why are you telling me this now?” _

Why  _ was  _ he telling Prowl any of this? He wasn’t usually this much of an emotional masochist.  _ “I guess at the end you start thinking about the beginning,”  _ he said, feeling helpless and hating himself for it.  _ “So there it is. I just thought you should know.”  _ However things played out from here, there was no going back. No amount of therapy sessions would ever bring back what they’d had — if they’d ever even had anything.  _ “So?”  _ Jazz asked again, afraid to know the answer, but needing it all the same.  _ “What about you?” _

_ “I thought…”  _ Prowl’s voice trailed off. Jazz held his breath. Was that a break in his composure? Or just a bump in the road?  _ “I thought that you were the most beautiful mark I’d ever seen.” _

There should be a sound, Jazz thought, for a spark when it broke.  _ “So.”  _ Somehow he managed to keep talking. _ “It was all business then?” _

_ “All business.” _

_ “Start to finish?” _

_ “Cold hard math.” _

Every word was like a blow. Jazz could barely focus on his visual feed, navigating the road by sheer memory as he struggled to process. It shouldn’t have hurt so much. It should never have hurt so much.  _ “Thank you,”  _ he bit out, forcing his feelings down like he would for any other job. Because that was all he had left: the job. It was kill or be killed, and if he didn’t pull it together, he was looking at the latter rather than the former.  _ “That’s what I needed to know.” _

This time he hung up on Prowl.

He should have known better. This was why there were rules against having personal relationships. Well, not  _ this,  _ exactly. This particular situation was a frag up to end all frag ups, and Jazz couldn’t imagine any other agent had ever landed themselves in such a colossal mess. Ever.

He pushed his engine for more speed. Prowl had said he’d race him home, and Jazz needed to get there first.

For a brief second as he pulled up to their driveway Jazz thought he’d succeeded. Then Prowl came barrelling out of nowhere, slamming his front bumper against Jazz’s side hard enough to buckle his door. “Ow!” Jazz swerved out of the way, preparing for Prowl to ram him again, but instead he just darted past him toward the house.  _ Damn!  _ Going for a weapon, probably, which was what Jazz had been trying to beat him to the punch at. So much for getting the upper hand!

Jazz heard Prowl transform and go in through the front door, so he slipped silently around the side of the house once he was back on his own feet. He thought about ducking into the garden shed for some of the weapons he had hidden there, but realistically there was no time. Prowl would be armed in a matter of minutes, if not seconds, and there weren’t a lot of ways out of that shed. Jazz wasn’t going to let himself get trapped inside and blown up in his own bunker.

So where to enter the house? Which way had Prowl gone inside? Ah, of course; he was going for the stairs, Jazz realized when the lights in the entryway went out. Good combination of partial cover, relative high ground, and plenty of exits. Plus, it would let him block Jazz if he tried to climb up the trellis and come in on the second floor — which he’d been considering, but now continued on the ground level until he reached the study. A quick flick of a laser knife had the latch inside falling away in pieces, leaving the window open. Jazz waited before crawling through on the off-chance Prowl actually managed to hear the tiny broken bits of metal hitting the floor from across the house, then crept soundlessly inside. 

A weapon. He needed a weapon. Preferably a gun, because while he was perfectly capable of killing with that laser knife, or even his bare hands, both of those were close-range options, and there was no way Prowl wasn’t waiting to snipe him from the staircase. Shifting his optic band to pick up infrared and carefully tuning up his audio sensitivity, Jazz warily opened the hidden wall safe behind his favorite band poster. He grabbed the small plasma blaster stored inside along with several power cells, quickly snapping one into place in the gun’s chamber. He’d have preferred something that didn’t need to be reloaded as frequently as this, but it was better than nothing. And, he thought, somewhat hysterically, it was one he could get through security at the shuttleport. Prowl was the head of the agency, sure, and taking him out would buy him some time, but even if Jazz did a damn good job of faking his own death alongside him before booking it out of town that was still the key to his continued survival:  _ getting out of town. _

He just had to kill Prowl first.

_ Cold hard math,  _ Jazz reminded himself, viciously stomping on the shattered remains of his spark. Prowl wasn’t his conjunx. He was just another mark.

Engaging his stealth mods, specifically those that dampened sound and EM output, Jazz slowly started making his way down the hall. He didn’t see or hear any sign of Prowl until he reached the narrow pass-through between the kitchen and the stairs, but then — there! Prowl’s engine was quiet, but  _ not  _ silent, and Jazz could hear him halfway up the staircase almost-but-not-quite matching the idling hum of the energon dispenser in the kitchen in an attempt to disguise his presence.

Slowly Jazz raised his plasma blaster—

**_BANG!_ **

“Ah!” Jazz ducked reflexively, audios ringing as the wall right above where his head had been exploded with the force of Prowl’s weapon. Several more bullets shredded through the thin metal, creating twisted flowers with burning edges at every exit hole and sending the large mirror that had been hanging there to the floor with what was probably, had he been able to hear it, a terrifically shattering crash. A rifle. Fragger’d gotten his hands on a semi-automatic rifle!

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the fire stopped. 

“—ou still alive?” Jazz caught the end of the question as he finished resetting his blasted audios a second later. Hmm… He took the opportunity to fake a groan and “dropped” his gun to the floor, watching the flickers he could see of Prowl’s outline in infrared through the glowing holes in the wall. As soon as he started to move—

“Ha!” Jazz jumped to his feet, pumping shot after shot at Prowl until his cartridge was spent. He must have missed though, because no sooner had he reached for a replacement than the rifle was firing again, moving down the stairs as Prowl came toward him. 

_ Frag.  _

Jazz scrambled back over the glass and shrapnel on the floor toward the kitchen as he finished reloading, diving behind the island counter just in time to see Prowl’s silhouette darken the archway of the pass-through before his outline was obscured by the heat of another hail of bullets. Luckily none of them successfully penetrated his cover, and Jazz heard the tell-tale click of the rifle when it ran out of ammo.

“Your aim’s as bad as your cooking,” Jazz taunted, popping up long enough to lob one of the kitchen knives at Prowl’s head. 

“I hardly think you’re one to talk about my cooking,” Prowl shot back without missing a beat, and Jazz caught a glimpse of him reloading as he ducked back into the hall to dodge the knife and put himself out of range of any additional projectiles.

“That was one time!  _ One  _ time I set off the fire alarm!” Granted, he’d also blown up the oven, but— Jazz grinned. Blown up the oven. Now  _ there  _ was a way to deal with that slagging rifle. “Anyway, you’d been saying you wanted to redo the kitchen!” he called out as he reached up under the counter, wrenching the hose carrying fuel to the range until it snapped and flinging it up over the counter.

“And now I’ll have an excuse to redo the entire house,” Prowl said, swinging back out of his hiding place to fire off another round of searing bullets… right into the highly flammable gas pouring out into the air from the severed hose.

The whole kitchen caught fire. Jazz switched back to normal vision just in time to avoid being blinded by the heat. Prowl went flying backward with the force of the explosion, and Jazz ignored the blistering of his paint to leap after him. A fierce kick sent the rifle spinning out of his hands, and he was just about to fire a plasma bolt right through Prowl’s chassis when he had to raise his hands to protect himself against the sudden onslaught of… 

…the hall table?!

Staggering with the force of the blow, Jazz didn’t realize he’d dropped his gun until Prowl grabbed his shoulders and whipped him around into the wall. He let out a sharp cry, scrabbling at Prowl’s plating through the stars of pain clouding his vision from cracking his audio horn against the hard metal. He just… needed… to get… leverage!

“Ah!” This time it was Prowl who cried out as Jazz managed to flip them around, slamming Prowl into the decorative, standing clock in the entryway. That  _ had  _ to be painful with those doorwings, but Prowl recovered remarkably quickly, launching himself at Jazz hard enough to send him to the floor. Slagger was  _ heavy,  _ and Jazz gasped and writhed beneath Prowl, trying to escape his hold. Fingers clawed at Prowl’s head and shoulders as the mech bore down, trying to crush Jazz’s throat and force his processor into protective shutdown — which, in this situation, would be anything but protective. 

It would be fatal.

Drawing on desperate reserves of strength or panic or both, Jazz rocked in Prowl’s grip, bringing his legs up to lock them around his waist and throw them both sideways. The roll broke Prowl’s grip and Jazz scrabbled free, lashing out with a series of kicks to discourage Prowl from following him. It worked, and he was able to get back on his feet just in time to deflect more incoming furniture. Aww, he’d liked that piece… 

Dropping into a crouch, Jazz rushed at Prowl. The force of the attack carried them both into the living room and into the back of the couch, which Prowl promptly dragged Jazz over and started raining down punches. The couch absorbed some of the blows, but Jazz could feel his plating dent in several places before he was able to dislodge Prowl and send them both tumbling to the floor, getting in another kick for good measure before sliding to the opposite end of the couch to catch his breath.

For once Prowl didn’t immediately take advantage of the opening to attack. Jazz looked up and saw him leaning heavily on the couch himself, plating liberally marred with cuts, burns and dents. His doorwings trembled on his back where he’d tucked them down protectively, but then one of them twitched purposefully, and Jazz saw the plan coming together in Prowl’s optics. Simultaneously they launched themselves across the room, but not at each other; Prowl leapt for Jazz’s dropped plasma blaster, while Jazz came up holding his forgotten rifle. 

Jazz’s finger curled on the trigger as he stared down the barrel of his own gun. Why hadn’t Prowl fired? His gaze moved from the weapon to Prowl’s face — that wonderful face, streaked with soot and energon and still so breathtakingly beautiful it shook Jazz to his core. 

“…I can’t do it.” Jazz lowered the rifle, accepting it would mean his death. He didn’t want to die, of course he didn’t… but he also didn’t want to live without Prowl.

“No!” Prowl shouted, his iron-clad composure finally broken. “Come on!” 

“I can’t,” Jazz repeated. The rifle slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground with a finality that made Prowl flinch. The hand holding the blaster shook, and he looked like he was about to cry. “You want it, take it,” Jazz said, spreading his hands helplessly. “I’m yours.” 

The moment stretched out between them, impossible. Jazz felt hope begin to knit the pieces of his spark back together. Prowl wasn’t firing.  _ Prowl wasn’t taking the shot.  _

With a silent prayer to Primus, Jazz did the only thing he could do.

He stepped forward, knocked the blaster from Prowl’s unresisting hand, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Now continued in [Dealer's Choice (Mr. and Mrs. Smith)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36935865)


	20. Coffeeshop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of [Sparkmates/Soulmates](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36041166)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

The cafe was bustling when Jazz and Bumblebee arrived. “You weren’t kidding about the new barista being popular,” Jazz said, letting out a low whistle at the number of customers. “We’re going to be here awhile.”

“So? I thought you wanted to take your time with things,” Bumblebee teased. “Anyway it gives us plenty of time to look at the menu. I always have trouble deciding what to order.”

“I can’t imagine why.” A quick glance at the boards above the crowd was all it took for Jazz to know he was going to need some time too. So many new items! He didn’t recognize half of them from the last time he’d been here.

While Bumblebee struck up a conversation with the pink and white femme in front of them about the merits of nickel foam over aerated aluminium, Jazz let his gaze wander from the menu to the mechs behind the counter. Bluestreak was there as usual, chattering up a friendly storm as he rang up orders with brisk efficiency, but the other pair of doorwings peeking up over the filtration unit was unfamiliar. They dipped and bobbed in neat, precise movements as Jazz watched, and when the mech came around the side of the machine to deliver the drink he’d just prepared—

“Primus.” Jazz felt his vents catch. “You didn’t warn me he was gorgeous.”

“How was I supposed to warn you? Wheeljack’s the one who saw him already, not me,” Bumblebee protested, while his new friend giggled.

“Are you talking about Prowl? I don’t know, he looks kind of stern to me.”

Stern? No, he was just focused, concentrating on his work. Jazz watched him going back and forth, back and forth, producing one complicated drink after the next without a single fumble. “Wow. Just look at him go! I can’t even whip together a boxed mix,” he said, and now it was Bumblebee’s turn to laugh.

“He’s not kidding,” he told the femme. “One time he got one of those parfait combo kits and proceeded to ruin every single component.”

“But,” she looked between Bumblebee and Jazz, confused, “aren’t those kits really simple?”

“Extremely,” Bumblebee nodded. “And Jazz still managed to ruin it.”

“How?”

“I don’t even know,” Jazz groaned. “Maybe I mixed the wrong packets with the wrong liquids. The one that was supposed to come out as a cake turned into a gel, the one that was supposed to turn into a gel stayed liquid, and the liquid syrup solidified into a rock hard blob that I couldn’t get out of the bowl with a chisel.”

“Telling more kitchen horror stories, are you?” Bluestreak said as they reached the counter.

“You make it sound like I’m proud of them.” Jazz put on an exaggerated pout. “It’s not like I do it on purpose!”

“I’m not sure anyone could screw up that badly on purpose,” Bumblebee said, gesturing for the femme to place her order first. While Bluestreak took care of her, he asked Jazz, “Did you decide what you’re going to get, or were you too busy ogling the barista?”

“I wasn’t  _ ogling.”  _ Okay, maybe he had been a little bit, but the mech was a real looker! Especially in the way he moved. It was like watching a dance behind the counter, and Jazz lost himself in it again by the time Bluestreak asked him for his order. “Oh! Um,” he stammered, not even sure whether he wanted something sweet or sour, “surprise me?”

Bluestreak giggled. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Jazz didn’t want to hold up the line, and it wasn’t like there was anything truly disgusting on the menu. “Just tell him to go ahead and make whatever he has the most fun making and charge me for the most expensive drink you’ve got.”

“Geez, what’s gotten into you?”

“What?” Jazz turned to see Bumblebee staring at him like he’d slipped a cog. “I can’t appreciate an artist at work?”

“I mean, you can,” Bumblebee said, “but you’re being weird about it.”

“That’s okay, they know me here.”

“And around here we know that weird is just another word for Jazz,” Bluestreak said with a grin. “He’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Jazz paid for his mystery drink, then dropped a large tip in the jar beside the register and went to join Bumblebee at one of the tall tables, waiting for their drinks. Bumblebee just rolled his optics at him as he continued to watch Prowl work, mesmerized by the grace of his movements. “You are so embarrassing.”

“To who? Me or you? Because I don’t care if I embarrass myself,” Jazz said cheerfully. 

That got a chuckle from Bee. “Well, then I guess I won’t care either. Though I’m totally going to laugh at you if you wind up with a drink you don’t like.”

Jazz made a face at him and went back to watching Prowl. He was working on the femme’s drink now, and “Arcee,” came forward when he called her name to claim the layered slush when he set the completed confection on the counter. His lips quirked up in a tiny smile when she thanked him, and his doorwings perked up with pride as he got started on the next order. Bumblebee hadn’t gotten anything complicated, so it was barely a minute later when Prowl called out “Bumblebee.”

“Looks like yours is next,” Bee said as he went to claim his drink. Jazz followed him, totally-not-lurking at the counter to get a better view of Prowl at work. He couldn’t tell what all of the ingredients were from where he was standing, but it was clear Prowl was enjoying himself, measuring out numerous powders in exacting amounts into a small sifter until he had a blend that satisfied him. Then he set it aside in favor of preparing a glass — a medium sized one with a decorative band around the middle — with a viscous syrup, actually  _ piping  _ the stuff onto the sides of the cube. 

He set it down in front of him and spun it on the counter when he’d finished the piping, causing the syrup to blur and form streaks.

“Wow.”

Bumblebee snickered at his elbow.

Somehow Prowl managed to fill the cube without damaging the lines he’d just painstakingly created, pouring in a heavy magma-generated midgrade first followed by two layers of a lighter solar: one unadulterated, and one whipped until it was fluffy enough to pour like liquid fog. He was doing something as he poured it, tilting both the cube and the pitcher to create a pattern on the top, and Jazz was practically vibrating with anticipation when he exchanged the pitcher for the sifter and dusted the powdered mix over the whole thing.

“Jazz?” he said, bringing the work of art over to the counter. 

“Oh,  _ wow,”  _ Jazz breathed, reaching for the cube as Prowl set it down gently and slid it toward him. “It’s—”

A flash of light sparked from their fingertips as they touched around the cube. Both mechs gasped as the partial glyphs on their wrists flared to life, each filling in with the missing pieces the other was wearing. 

There was a moment of stunned silence as the glow faded. Then—

“Congratulations!” Bluestreak cheered, and the whole shop burst into applause.

“Wow,” Bumblebee laughed. “Looks like you made it to the garden after all!”

“Garden?” Prowl asked quietly, looking rather embarrassed by all the attention. 

“Long story,” Jazz said, smiling across the cube at him. The glyph for  _ Appreciation  _ reflected off the glass from both their wrists, sparkling against the vibrant syrup. “I know you’re on the clock right now, but maybe you’d like to meet me there sometime and I can tell you about it?”

“And we can get to know a little more about each other than just our names?” Prowl suggested with a smile. “I’m game if you are.”

“Absolutely.” Jazz reluctantly withdrew his hands and started fumbling for something to write on; Prowl grabbed a pen from behind the counter and snagged his receipt, jotting down his frequency.

“Call me?”

Jazz let his fingers close over Prowl’s again as he took the receipt, hardly able to believe it was real. He hadn’t even taken a single sip of his drink but already he felt drunk on happiness. “It’s a date.”


	21. Childhood Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of [Royalty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36382287)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Kidnapping, imprisonment, threats of violence and murder toward what are essentially children, Transformers with developmental stages (youngling, mechling, etc.)

Sometimes it shocked Prowl just how quickly Swindle could work. Within a cycle, the youngling he’d brought in to replace the prince went from generally being the same shape as Jazz to a near-perfect replica of him. The only thing wrong with the illusion was that smile. “Jazz” had the blue optic band, the white-and-silver paint with more blue accents, and all the right kibble in all the right places, but that smile looked nothing like anything Prowl had seen on the real Jazz’s face.

Of course, the real Jazz was tied up and locked in a cell feeling pretty depressed and miserable. He wasn’t doing any kind of smiling, nasty and smug or otherwise. 

Prowl snuck in to see him after Swindle and “Jazz” had finished taunting him again. “Jazz?” he called softly, and the broken keen the young prince had been making petered out into an unhappy whine.

“They’re going to think he’s me,” he said, not even bothering to look up from where he was huddled in a ball in the corner of the cell. “My creators are going to think I’ve come home and they’ll stop looking for me.”

“Maybe at first.” It wasn’t a kind thing to say, but their entire situation was unkind, and lying wouldn’t help it. “But he won’t fool anyone who knows you for long. He’s too mean.”

“Mean and stupid.” 

“And stupid,” Prowl agreed. Incredibly stupid, since “Jazz” actually believed he was going to get to live as a prince for the rest of his life. That was what Swindle had sold him on: come with me and I’ll rebuild you and put you in the palace where you’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted. All you have to do in exchange is open doors for me and bring me small valuables. A fine plan on the surface, but it fell apart in the details. “He thinks he won’t get caught, or that, if he does, Swindle will step in and save him.”

“But he won’t?” 

“No way. Swindle doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’ll do whatever makes him the most money, and it’s hard to make money in prison.”

“You  _ can’t  _ make money in prison,” Jazz said, finally uncurling a bit. “If you’re in prison, that’s all there is. You’re just in prison.”

It was a little more complicated than that, but Prowl didn’t bother correcting him. “The point is Swindle will absolutely leave him behind when he thinks your creators are about to see through the fake.”

“And… and when they do, they’ll start looking for me again,” Jazz said, light flooding back into his dimmed visor. “Even if they stop looking while they think I’m home, they’ll start again when they figure out I’m not.”

“I’m sure they will. But we need to not be here if they’re going to find you.”  _ Alive,  _ Prowl didn’t add, because it would only frighten him. He’d thought at first that Swindle might keep Jazz alive, the way he’d kept him when his creator failed to pay his ransom, but the final touches to “Jazz’s” appearance weren’t the only preparations Swindle had made over the last cycle. He’d been packing too, like he was getting ready to go someplace far, far away. Smart, since he was about to do something that would make the king really, really want to arrest him, but fleeing the country wasn’t something you did with hostages.

Which meant that Swindle might be about to decide that  _ Prowl  _ was finally expendable too.

“Okay then. How do we get out of here?” Jazz asked, innocently unaware of their dire fate. “Did you find an opportunity like you were waiting for?”

Yes and no; escaping with Jazz would give them a chance once they were out of Swindle’s complex, because the prince’s guards would be out there ready to rescue them as long as they could reach them. No need to worry about getting together the resources to fuel and hide on their own for unknown cycles while they tried to figure out who was safe to approach and wouldn’t just hand them back to Swindle. The problem was, “I don’t have a key to your cell. I know how we can get out of the building, but I can’t open this door.”

“Yet,” Jazz said with a confidence that was more bolstering than it should have been, given its naivete. “It’s just one door, and then we won’t have to be kidnapped anymore.”

“It’s not that—”

“Yer not s’pposed t’be in here.” Prowl turned to see “Jazz” watching them, nasty smirk firmly in place. “I’m telling Swindle. Yer gonna be in sooooo much trouble.”

“Not as much trouble as you,” Jazz shot back, crawling awkwardly in his bonds to the bars of the cell. “You’re going to be in so much trouble when my creators figure out you’re not me.”

“Ha! As if. I’m th’perfect copy,” the other youngling said, twirling to show off his new accents before dropping the one in his speech. “Everyone will be overjoyed to see me alive, and they’ll understand if I seem somewhat different thanks to the trauma I went through. It will hardly be my fault if I can’t remember everything or everyone I’m supposed to right away.”

“You won’t learn fast enough,” Jazz sniffed, looking down his nose at his doppelganger even as he had to look up to meet his optic band. “You’re too stupid.”

“I am not!” Prowl scrambled aside, seemingly forgotten, as “Jazz” stomped up to the cell and growled through the bars. “I’m gonna be th’new prince, and that makes me smarter’n  _ you.  _ Who was dumb enough ta git kidnapped in th’first place? Not me!”

“But you are dumb enough to think you can pass as me with nothing but the right appearance.”

“I can sound like you too!” 

“But you can’t move like me.” Jazz flopped back on the hard stone floor and sighed pityingly. “You aren’t graceful at all.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine! Watch me! And you,” Prowl jumped as “Jazz” rounded on him, “you be the judge. See if I don’t move  _ gracefully  _ enough.”

It was— honestly, it was kind of hilarious, watching him attempt to be graceful. He wasn’t uncoordinated or anything, but his movements were jerky, uncomfortable in places, and it was clear he was more used to hunching down and sneaking around than he was to standing tall and walking carelessly. 

Jazz saved Prowl having to break the bad news to “Jazz” by laughing at him. “That’s terrible! You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Shut up! I just need to practice!” 

“By watching Swindle?” Jazz sat up, still snickering. “No way. There’s no one here for you to learn from.”

“Jazz” bristled his plating angrily. “Can learn from you,” he hissed. “Come on! Show me, and see if I don’t get it right then!”

Prowl was about to warn Jazz against helping him be a better imposter, but then he saw a mischievous light in his visor. What was he planning?”

“I’d love to show you, if only to watch you fall on your face,” Jazz said, holding up his bound hands, “but I can’t. Not with these ropes in the way.”

“Then I’ll untie ya! And then I’ll show ya I can so move like you.” He tried to reach through the bars to untie Jazz, but Jazz was sitting back away from the door, out of reach. Instead of demanding Jazz come closer, the other youngling just turned away and stomped off, calling, “Don’t go anywhere!”

Jazz looked around at his prison. “Where does he think I’d go?” he asked, sounding confused.

“I don’t think he is thinking,” Prowl said, hardly able to believe what was happening. “You tricked him into getting the key.”

“Yup.”

“How did you know he would do that?”

“Because he’s like Springer,” was all Jazz had to say about that. “We’re going to have to run really fast once he lets me out so he doesn’t tell on us.”

That would be a problem, yes. “We could lock him in the cell instead of you,” Prowl suggested, though that wouldn’t stop “Jazz” from making an absolute racket and sending Swindle after them anyway. It would be safer if he was unconscious—

“Or we could bring him with us.”

“—what?” Prowl blinked, trying to get his train of thought back on track before it derailed completely. “You want to bring him  _ with  _ us? Why?”

“So he doesn’t have to be kidnapped anymore either,” Jazz said as though it made perfect sense. “He’s mean and stupid and I don’t like him, but being kidnapped sucks.”

“He’s… Jazz, he wasn’t kidnapped, he came here on his own.” There was no way they could bring him with them! 

“He just wants to live in the palace, right? If he comes with us he can do that, only he won’t have to lie about anything or get in trouble.” Jazz nodded firmly. “I’ll ask him. And if he doesn’t want to come with us, then we lock him in the cell.”

Prowl sighed. “Okay.” Already anticipating “Jazz’s” reaction to such an offer, he began searching for something to gag the youngling with. They were going to need as much of a head start as they could get. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Now continues in [Historical](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36707472)


	22. Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to run cons once you develop a conscience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: scams, mentions of domestic abuse

Ruining lives was just part of what you did in this line of work.

Jazz had never cared about that before. He’d been running cons since he was old enough to know how to pair a pretty smile with a false promise, and every mark he’d ever made was all about the challenge: how quickly could he convince them to pour their money into his “surefire investment”, and how much could he convince them to fork over? A hundred shanix? A thousand? A  _ hundred  _ thousand?

That last had ultimately become his preferred goal. Running small-time scams wasn’t profitable enough for the amount of effort and risk involved for a mech working solo. Jazz didn’t want to spend whole weeks at a time working non-stop, increasing the odds of someone calling the authorities with every day that passed, and only make enough money for a short break before having to do it all over again. No, he’d rather focus all his attention into a single day and a single, wealthy mark, or perhaps two or three, then vanish with his ill-gotten gains to live respectably for as long as he could. 

The long game was the only way to play this game and keep winning, after all.

His closest friends had no idea what he really did for a living. As far as anyone in his life knew, Jazz was a perfectly law-abiding citizen. A mech of modest means who enjoyed good fuel, good music, and good company. It was protection against anyone ever coming to investigate him for his crimes. How could he possibly be responsible for some rich tycoon with more money than brains signing away a fortune to a hustler in Kaon when his whole life was in Iacon? Sure he sometimes travelled for work or pleasure, but he’d been in Altihex that weekend; just ask any of his friends.

The key was to not get greedy. To not get caught up in the con so it became an end rather than a means. His brother had made that mistake — the first of many — years ago, and Jazz had somewhat regretfully allowed them to drift apart. Ricochet had been sliding fast down the slippery slope into becoming a hard-core criminal, and that wasn’t something Jazz could afford. He just wanted to make his money and go on living.

Until the night he met Prowl.

Jazz had chosen to work in Praxus this time because there were several conventions running that weekend. Large, public events were a great way to test the waters, gauge the atmosphere, and zero in on a likely candidate. Prowl had seemed like a perfect target: a little bit shy, but eager enough to talk and, more importantly, listen when Jazz took the time to start bringing him out of his shell. He responded well to simple kindness and even better to engex, and after the event he’d found him at closed for the evening, Jazz took Prowl out to dinner. It was always easier to manipulate a drunk mech than a sober one, and Prowl was easy to get drunk. 

From there it was just a simple matter of weaving the net and watching him fall into it: it was a noble cause, Jazz stressed, having worked out that this mech would be more likely to “invest” in projects that wouldn’t just make his money back, but would benefit others. How fortuitous that he should be here in Praxus, following the convention circuit to fundraise for a new, state of the art hospital in Uraya. Wouldn’t Prowl like to contribute to such a project? He could be one of its primary backers, if he was willing to go in at the top tier. They could name one of the wards after him, and, while he wouldn’t see a return on his money right away, in time the hospital would definitely make back its startup costs and be able to pay back the mechs who were willing to invest to get it off the ground.

By the end of the night, Jazz had a nice, fat transfer slip in his subspace, ready to take to the bank as soon as it opened in the morning, and a very, very drunk Praxan hanging off his arm. Unwilling to let the mech attempt to drive home in that state, Jazz walked him outside to the curb and insisted on calling a transport. 

And that, while they were standing there waiting for it to arrive, was when everything fell apart.

At first Jazz didn’t realize Prowl was crying. He was already so shaky that his sobs didn’t register at first, but then a low keen started to build in his vocalizer, and Jazz realized the mech was in genuine distress.

“Hey,” he asked, walking Prowl back to a bench where he could sit him down. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything. I…” Jazz sat down beside him and patted his back gently between his trembling doorwings. “I’ve just made a terrible mistake.”

Uh oh. Buyer’s remorse? Jazz didn’t even technically have his money yet! “What mistake? Surely it’s not as bad as all that.”

“Yes it is. I’ve been a fool, and now it’s too late to fix it. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I deserve whatever comes for not knowing better.” His engine was catching with an unhealthy sound, and Jazz could feel him starting to overheat. A quick look in infrared revealed an alarming amount of heat building up in his head. “I just wanted to have a nice night without thinking about him for once, but now I’ve gone and spent everything in our account. He’s going to… to…” 

“To… what?” Hurt him? Was someone going to hurt him when he got home? “Do you need somewhere safe to go?”

“There isn’t anywhere safe,” Prowl said, rocking slightly as his head fell forward. His optics were overbright to the point Jazz wasn’t sure he could see anymore. Did he even recognize Jazz as the mech he’d just been having dinner with? “I’m going to wind up in the hospital when I crash, and then we’ll have so many bills again and we won’t be able to pay them, which means I’ll just wind up  _ back  _ in the hospital—”

“Wait, hold up. You’re going to crash?” He certainly looked like he was headed that direction, but he sounded so sure, like it was a common occurrence for him.

“Processor glitch. Always had it. Should know better than to drink so much after not getting enough recharge.” Now the distressed keen took on a note of pain. “You should… should…” 

“What? Leave you here like this?!” No way. Not when it was — sort of — Jazz’s fault he was in this state. He’d planned to get him drunk, yes, but not sick! “Forget the transport, I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No!” Prowl’s optics flared even brighter in panic, and he cried out as one of them sparked and died from the surge. His helm fell back, unequal gaze staring up at the sky helplessly. “I can’t afford it.” 

Primus… 

“Sure you can,” Jazz said, pulling his hard-earned transfer slip out and pressing it into Prowl’s hand. “See? You’re not broke.”

“But the hospital…” 

“The hospital—” was a dirty, filthy lie, and for the first time in his life Jazz felt ashamed of what he’d done “—will find other backers. It’s more important you pay for your own hospital bills first. Now, put that back in your subspace and let me call you an ambulance.”

“Can’t… I can’t…” Prowl’s fingers twitched around the slip, nearly dropping it in an attempt to get a grip on it. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh. You have  _ nothing  _ to be sorry for.” Jazz took the slip back and held it up so Prowl could — hopefully — see him tear it up with his remaining optic. “There. It’s all taken care of, and an ambulance is on its way.”

“Thank… you…” 

“Don’t thank me.” He didn’t deserve it. “Just take better care of yourself, alright?”

Prowl’s smile was so trusting it hurt. “You’re… a good… mech.”

He really wasn’t.

Prowl had just slipped into unconsciousness when the ambulance arrived. “What happened?” he asked, transforming and walking up to where Prowl was slumped against Jazz. 

“He said something about a processor glitch, not enough recharge, and too much engex.” Jazz bit his lip, anxiously waiting while the medic took a preliminary scan. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Too soon to tell.” The medic looked down at the scan readout and cursed. “This isn’t his first crash, though the last one was a while ago. I need to transport him to the hospital. You Barricade?”

“Who?”

“Barricade. Says in his file to contact his conjunx if something like this happens.”

His conjunx… Was that who Prowl had been afraid would hurt him for spending all their money? “No,” Jazz admitted, “I’m… just a friend.”

“Follow along behind if you want then.”

The medic carefully picked up Prowl and carried him over to the street, transforming and loading him up in one smooth, elegant sequence. 

He should bail, Jazz tried to tell himself. He should have already bailed. Nothing good could possibly come from getting involved with a mark. 

But he wasn’t a mark anymore. He was Prowl.

Cursing his sudden crisis of conscience, Jazz stepped out into the street and transformed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, unrelated to this chapter: there is art for my [Potterverse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36198423) AU ficlet! Thank you so much plantmandotexeretired - everyone go check it out [here](http://plantmandotexeretired.tumblr.com/post/177279429959/got-inspired-by-rizobact-and-her-hogwarts-au-for)!! <3


	23. Historical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of [Childhood Friends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36644199) (because that installment was a continuation of [Royalty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36382287), and royalty is historical, right? XD)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Kidnapping, imprisonment, Transformers with developmental stages (youngling, mechling, etc.), incredibly mature name calling

Prowl was worried. Jazz could tell, but he didn’t understand why. Did he think his look-alike would decide to ruin their escape instead of joining in? Jazz knew how to handle that! His creator always said that being a ruler meant not everyone was going to like you so you just had to learn to work with the ones who didn’t, and Jazz already had loads of practice with the other younglings in the palace. Some of them liked to be mean for fun, just like the not-him that Swindle wanted to replace him with, and Jazz had learned how to trick them into doing what he wanted when he had to. 

“Outta my way,” not-him said, barging past Prowl with the key to Jazz’s cell. He glared through the bars as he unlocked the door, then stomped inside and started untying Jazz’s hands and feet. “Now, get up and show me! I’ll prove I can be just as graceful as you!”

“Bet you can’t.”

“Bet I can!” Jazz wobbled as he got to his feet. “Ha! See? Y’can’t even stand up straight!”

“Because I was  _ tied up,”  _ Jazz said, rocking on his heels to get the feeling back in his legs. “Duh.”

Not-him huffed impatiently. “Well hurry up and get over bein’ tied up then.”

Jazz pretended to hurry, but really he took his time, making sure he wouldn’t wobble again even a little bit before he tried to move again. Then, when he was sure he was ready, he drew himself up in his best ballroom posture and glided out of the cell, head held high. “You have to be able to move like this,” he said, footsteps coming down with hardly a sound. “Can you do that?”

“Of course!” His would-be impersonator tried to waltz out of the cell after him. He held his chin up arrogantly rather than artfully, and his feet still sounded kind of stompy in comparison. At least he seemed to notice, because he stopped after a moment and stood still to watch some more. “Show me again.”

“I don’t think—” Prowl started to say, but not-him hissed at him to shut up and judge quieter. Jazz ignored them, focusing on being the smoothest and most graceful he’d ever been in his life.  

The other youngling tried to copy him, but it was clear he just wasn’t on the same level. The more he tried, the worse he got, and the more his face screwed up in anger. Jazz waited, silently continuing to demonstrate until his frustration finally boiled over. “I can’t do it!” he exploded, viciously kicking the hard stone wall. “Ow!”

Prowl winced at the loud noise, probably worrying Swindle was going to show up to find out what was going on. Jazz didn’t want him coming either, so now he went over to his double and patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. I had to practice a long time to be able to do it too. I think you’re learning faster than I did, really.”

“So what?” Not-him shoved his hand away, then sank to the floor, sulking. “I don’t have a long time to practice. I’m supposed to be you already, and if I’m not you, then I’m no one.”

“Maybe you can’t be me, but you don’t have be no one.” Jazz knelt down in front of him. “What’s your name?”

“Jazz.”

“Your  _ real  _ name,” Jazz said, which earned him a glare and an insult.

“That  _ is  _ my name now, dumbaft.”

“You’re not good enough to be me, and that means we can’t both have the same name.”

“Well it’s the only name I have. What’re ya gonna do now, moron?”

“I’m not a moron,” Jazz said, then grinned. “Stupid.”

“Slaghead.”

“Idiot.”

“Loser.”

“Dimwit.” 

“Oh yeah?” By now they were both smiling. “Well, I’m rubber and you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off me’n sticks to you.”

“Whatever you say, ricochet,” Jazz rhymed. “Oh!” He clapped his hands together happily. “That’s it! Your name can be Ricochet.”

“What does that mean?” he said suspiciously.

“It’s when something bounces off other things,” Prowl said helpfully.

“Ricochet, huh?” He sounded happy about it, but then he shook his head. “Can’t. Swindle needs me t’be Jazz.”

“Why?”

“So I can live in the palace and not always be hungry anymore.  _ Duh.” _

Jazz shot Prowl a grin. See? He’d been right! “Well, you don’t need Swindle for that. Just come back with me and Prowl.”

“Come back with— waaaait a second,” his visor darkened dangerously. “You think yer gettin’ out of here?”

“Yeah,” Jazz said, reaching out to grab his hands. “And you can come with.” 

“Che. Sure, ‘cuz lookin’ like this I’m the picture of innocence.”

“I’ll just say you’re my twin,” Jazz grinned. “What do you say, bro?”

“I… say…” Ricochet set his jaw determinedly. “How’re we gettin’ outta here?”

“I don’t know. Prowl is the one with the plan.”

Together they turned to look up at him. Prowl seemed a little leery still, like he didn’t want to trust Ricochet, but Jazz gave him his best “play nice” face and he sighed. “There’s a gap in the compound wall behind one of the storage sheds,” he said. “The opening is too small for me, but you should be able to fit through. Once you’re outside, you just need to unlock the back gate so I can follow you.”

“Or we could just leave you,” Ricochet said.

Jazz shoved him. “No way.”

“He just said it’s locked! How’re we even supposed to get it open without a key?”

“You don’t need one,” Prowl explained. “It’s chained shut. All you need are a pair of bolt cutters, which I’ve already stashed in the shed.”

“Oh! Guess yer not as dumb as ya look after all.”

Prowl frowned. “Likewise.”

“Hey!” Jazz gave them both the “play nice” face and said, with Authority, “No fighting.” He held a hand out in the air between them all. “Truce?”

Prowl and Ricochet looked at him, then each other, then back at him. “Truce,” Prowl said first, placing his hand over Jazz’s. 

With a sigh, Ricochet added his hand to the pile. “Truce,” he said. “Now can we get with the gettin’ outta here? Swindle’s gonna be lookin’ fer me soon.”

“And it won’t be much longer before someone notices I’m not doing my chores,” Prowl agreed. “Let’s hurry.”

Getting across the compound turned out to be a little more complicated than Prowl had made it sound. There were several mercenaries out training in the yard, making it impossible for them to all cross together. 

“Is there another way around?”

“Not without running into Swindle.”

“Hey.” Ricochet grabbed Jazz’s hand. “How well d’you think you can impersonate me?”

“Impersonate… you?”

“Yeah. While ‘I’ take Prowl across the yard in the open, talkin’ like there’s work t’be done in the shed, I can slip up onto th’roof and climb over t’meet ya there.”

“You can  _ climb  _ on the  _ roof?”  _ That was awesome!

“It might actually work,” Prowl said. “Physically you’re identical and everyone knows it. We might even get away with just walking across the yard without saying anything, but if we’re stopped…” 

“If we’re stopped, I— I tell ‘em t’frag off,” Jazz said, hesitating just slightly over the swear word. He puffed out his chest and crossed his arms haughtily. “I’m royalty, or as good as in another couple cycles. If I say I got work fer P- for this servant in th’shed, that’s none of their business.” 

Prowl just stared at him while Ricochet stifled a laugh. “That’s  _ awesome!”  _ he snickered. “Say it just like that without the stutter’n you’ll be fine. Oh, and,” he added as he began creeping away, “try not t’be so damn  _ graceful.” _

Jazz made a face at him, then proceeded to stomp fearlessly out into the yard. “C’mon already,” he said when Prowl didn’t immediately follow. “Hurry up!”

Some of the mercenaries paused their bouts to watch them, but luckily none of them tried to stop or question them. Jazz supposed that meant he’d done a good job acting like a jerk, but it was nice to be able to stop pretending once they reached the right shed. Prowl must have agreed, because he let out a sigh of relief when the door shut behind them. “I’d really like to never do that again,” he said, rummaging through a pile of… Jazz didn’t know what, but he pulled the bolt cutters out of it a second later. “Come on, let’s go.”

“No. We have to wait for Ricochet.”

“Ricochet might have snuck off to tell on us,” Prowl said. “If we wait here, the next mech who comes through that door could be Swindle.”

“No,” Jazz repeated. Prowl was only saying that because he was afraid. “It’ll be Ricochet.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because.” Just… because. “He’s going to be my brother.”

For a second Prowl looked like he was going to object, but then he snapped his mouth shut and nodded. “Okay. We wait for him.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Bare seconds later there was a light tap on the door — at youngling height. Jazz grinned broadly. “Told you,” he said, and opened it to let Ricochet in. “Hi. We have the bolt cutters.” 

“Then let’s go. Ain’t got much time left,” Ricochet said. The light in his visor was wobbling a bit, almost like he was trying not to cry, but Jazz knew better than to say anything about it. He’d probably just get mad, and if they were running out of time, they didn’t have time for him to be mad.

The hole in the compound wall was only just big enough for Jazz to wriggle through. Prowl passed the bolt cutters through after him, then boosted Ricochet up to the opening. “Don’t worry,” Jazz heard him say. “Y’didn’t leave me. Ain’t gonna leave ya.”

Whatever Prowl’s response to that was, he missed it. 

Jazz waited for Ricochet to finish squirming through the gap and drop to the ground before heading over to the gate. Exactly as Prowl had described, it was held closed with a simple chain and padlock. The problem was how heavy the chain was compared to the bolt cutters, and in the end they were only able to get through it by each holding onto the handles and pressing with all their strength. 

“Stupid chain,” Ricochet said, yanking the broken links free of the latch. Jazz threw the bolt cutters aside, and together they pulled the door open. Prowl was there waiting for them, and he darted out of the compound as soon as it was open wide enough for him to fit through. “Now what?” 

“Now we just need to find one of Jazz’s guards so he can tell them we helped him escape so they’ll get us all out of here,” Prowl said, looking to Jazz for confirmation.

“Exactly. And I’m pretty sure I can hear Impactor’s engine chugging away from here.” Jazz took each of their hands in his. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! This arc is officially concluded. Could I have made Ricochet into an evil little brat who turned them in and ruined their lives, possibly even getting them both killed? Yes, but this way was more fun. And fluffy. And I have this thing about enjoying fluff. Also something about telling the story from a child's POV really made me want things to go well and give all of them, Ricochet included, a happy ending.


	24. Office/Workplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of [Fake Dating](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36412047)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Possibly a bit of secondhand embarrassment again, short lived misunderstandings

It had been several weeks since the seminar. Prowl hadn’t planned to keep in touch with Jazz afterward, despite how amusing it had been to play at being a couple. Or how enjoyable. Jazz had been clever, funny, and charming, somehow managing to be outgoing and friendly with any and everyone without turning the entire evening into a non-stop stream of socializing. In the moments when he pulled Prowl aside so they could just spend some time talking quietly, taking in the atmosphere without letting it overwhelm them, Prowl couldn’t help but think that if he had chosen a date for the event, he would have chosen someone like Jazz.

The fact that Jazz was the perfect embodiment of every physical trait Prowl found attractive didn’t hurt. Apparently he’d been subconsciously describing a fantasy in the false details he’d let slip about his fake lover, and while it was a little awkward to find himself confronted with that embarrassing truth, Prowl hadn’t let that stop him from appreciating the mech at his side while the ruse lasted.

He’d even gone so far as to allow the picture Bluestreak printed up of the two of them — taken by Sunstreaker if the professional level of the composition was any indication, no doubt at his twin’s incessant pestering — to remain on his desk. Prowl often caught himself glancing over at it and smiling. It was a beautiful reminder of an unexpectedly wonderful night; a perfect moment preserved in time.

But perfect moments ended, and at the end of the seminar Prowl had thanked Jazz for his company and his willingness to play along with Sideswipe’s misunderstanding, but hadn’t asked for more. They hadn’t exchanged frequencies, and Prowl assumed that would be the last he’d ever see of the mech, even if he kept up the lie around the office that they were still “making it work” whenever anyone asked.

Then he’d gotten the email.

_Hey Prowl. Hope it’s not too weird I looked you up in the mainframe, but I didn’t get your number last time and my boss has informed me I Will Be Going to the charity gala next week. Don’t suppose you got roped into going too? I could use a “date”._ _~Jazz_

“What’s the matter? You look like your computer’s about to jump up and bite you.”

Prowl hurriedly minimized the message so Sideswipe couldn’t read it. “It should be more concerned about me taking out my frustrations on it.”

“Ooh!” Sideswipe winced. “Another desk bites the dust?”

He was never going to live that one down, was he? One time. He’d lost his temper one time at an uncooperative folding table and now everyone thought he was a serial desk murderer. “Maybe you’d like to get out of my strike zone,” Prowl suggested, gripping the edges of his desk in what he hoped was a menacing fashion. It must have fallen short of the mark because Sideswipe only laughed, but he also started walking away, which was good enough for Prowl.

“Take an early lunch or something!” the red menace called over his shoulder. “You definitely want to calm down before you do something crazy like check your email.”

_ What? _

Panicked that Sideswipe somehow knew about Jazz’s email, Prowl pulled up his inbox again. His sigh of relief quickly deepened into a groan of frustration when he saw the mass-email from their captain sitting at the top of his unread messages. He didn’t even need to open it to know what it was about or why Sideswipe had tried, in his own demented way, to warn him. The words “Charity Gala” in the subject line said it all.

_ I could use a “date”… _

Without pausing to think, Prowl fired off his response.

When the night of the gala arrived, Prowl found himself waiting anxiously for Jazz to arrive. He felt silly for being so worked up, but he couldn’t help it. He’d enjoyed himself so much last time; surely this couldn’t replicate the experience? And really, what had he been thinking? Pretending to date someone was bad enough without actually dragging another mech into the farce. Only the fact that it had been Jazz’s idea, both times, kept him from bolting and coming up with an excuse to give the captain for his absence in the morning.

“Prowler!” Prowl’s doors twitched. Jazz just grinned and walked right up to him, fitting himself against Prowl’s side without hesitation. “Glad you could make it.”

“It’s not like I was given an alternative.” Prowl winced at how awful that had come out sounding, but Jazz laughed.

“You and me both. And my boss didn’t even have the decency to come himself after mandating our attendance!”

“He didn’t?” That was low. At least the captain was here tonight along with everybody else from their office. “Well. I hope we can find a way to avoid the evening being a total loss.”

“I like the way you think. Start with drinks?” Jazz suggested, arm still wrapped around Prowl’s waist. 

“Sounds like a plan.”

Against all of Prowl’s expectations — or maybe he should admit they’d been fears — things went as well as they had at the seminar. Maybe even better. Jazz stuck close to his side, cracking jokes and making keen observations in equal measure, all the while engaging in such easy, relaxed physical contact that even Prowl almost forgot they were only pretending. They certainly fooled everyone else, much to Jazz’s apparent amusement after spending some time talking with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.

“Those two really are invested in the idea of us as a couple, huh?”

“You have no idea. I keep finding memos stuck to the picture frame on my desk with little hearts drawn all over them, or worse.”

“Wait. You have a picture of me on your desk?”

Prowl’s face flushed with embarrassed heat. “Of us,” he admitted. “Sunstreaker took a picture last time and, well…” 

“You put it on your desk.”

“I’m sorry,” Prowl said quickly. “I’ll get rid of it.”

“What? No!” Jazz took his hand, squeezing it. “I don’t have a problem with it. But if you’re going to leave it up, I have one condition.”

“And what condition is that?”

“You have to tell me what’s on the ‘or worse’ memos.”

He’d already been heating up with embarrassment; now he was positively burning with it. 

“Ahh.” Jazz smiled knowingly. “I think I can guess.” 

Good. That would save Prowl the trouble of having to say it out loud.

“Come on.” Jazz used the hand in his to tug Prowl in the direction of a couple of mechs standing near the engex fountain. “Let me introduce you to a few of my coworkers. They’ve all been dying to see the mech I’ve been ‘hiding’ from them for so long.”

Grateful for Jazz’s willingness to drop the subject (not to mention how sensitive and considerate he was in general), Prowl followed him over to where the pair were chatting over their cubes. Mirage and Bumblebee, as they introduced themselves, were reserved and bubbly, respectively. Prowl quickly found himself stepping back into a more sedate conversation with Mirage while Bumblebee peppered Jazz with questions. 

“When we were all informed we would have to attend the gala, Jazz was rather put out,” Mirage told him. “He was already making other plans for the evening, you see.”

“He was?” That was a shame. Prowl had next to no life outside the office for extracurricular work obligations to interfere with, but he was sorry to think he was a poor substitute for whatever Jazz had been planning.

“You should know,” Mirage said, giving him a curious look, “since it was to be a date.”

“Ah.” Now Prowl felt even worse. But of course Mirage thought he was the date Jazz had been talking about, if Jazz was using a fake relationship with him to hide his real lover from his coworkers the way Prowl was hiding his lack of one from his. “I didn’t know what he’d told you.”

“Hmph. So secretive, the both of you.”

“Hey, not every mech likes being the subject of an interrogation every time they try to have a simple chat!” Jazz danced away from Bumblebee, ignoring his good-natured denial of ever doing such a thing. “It  _ is  _ possible to leave the job at the office, you know.”

“I am aware. I merely have an inquiring mind,” Mirage said, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “Perhaps if you answered more of our questions, we would not be as motivated to keep asking them.”

“Don’t fall for that lie,” Prowl said, reaching out to pull Jazz to his side. He was ready to be done with this conversation. “Every answer I give my coworkers only makes them pester for more, their questions multiplying like the heads of some grotesque inquisitional hydra.” 

“Inquisitional— ha ha! Hydra!” Bumblebee doubled over laughing. “Oh, that is  _ fantastic! _ I can’t wait to share that one in the office tomorrow!”

Jazz was chuckling quietly in Prowl’s arms, sending pleasant vibrations skittering over his doorwings. “Maybe we should make it our new mascot: the Inquisitional Hydra of Internal Affairs.”

In spite of himself, Prowl found himself smiling. “I could always ask Sunstreaker if he would be interested in designing the logo.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Mirage said with the air of someone far too used to such shenanigans. Bumblebee was still laughing too much to talk, and didn’t resist when Mirage started leading him away. “I think that’s enough of your bad ideas for one night.”

_ “My  _ bad ideas?” Jazz said innocently. Mirage didn’t dignify that with a response, which didn’t bother Jazz in the slightest. “My bad idea indeed! Now we definitely need to ask Sunstreaker if he’ll draw something for me. I want to wallpaper his desk with it.” 

Normally Prowl wouldn’t have condoned anything of the sort… but it wasn’t like the wallpapering would be happening in  _ his  _ office. “Let’s see if we can find him then,” he said instead of trying to talk Jazz down. “And… I’m sorry about your other plans for tonight.”

“My what?” Jazz looked up at him, confused. “Who said I had other plans?”

“Mirage.” Prowl looked away, unable to meet Jazz’s visor. “He said you were planning a date, and instead you wound up stuck here with me.”

“Stuck with— oh, Prowl.” Jazz pulled him over to the side of the room and brought a hand to his face to stop him from hiding. “The mech I was planning a date with was you.”

Wait.  _ What? _

“I looked you up right away after that seminar. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to ask you out for real ever since, but I kept thinking you wouldn’t be interested so I never went through with it. Guess Mirage found some of my half-baked plans; the most recent reject was an engex tasting down at Maccadam’s Old Oil House tonight.”

“So… then…” Did he dare believe his audios? “This is a real date?”

“It’s as real as you want it to be,” Jazz said. He was still smiling, but it was distinctly apologetic now rather than playful. “I took the coward’s way out when I implied all I wanted was another fake date. If you can’t forgive me for that, I’ll understand.”

Prowl steeled himself and took the plunge. “And if I don’t care how we wound up here together, only that we did?”

Jazz let out the most adorable happy sound. “Really?”

“Really.” Prowl brought a hand up to Jazz’s cheek to mirror the one on his own. “And when the next engex tasting comes up, we can go to that as well.”

Prowl never knew who leaned forward first. He only knew that suddenly he was kissing Jazz, and Jazz was kissing him.

He was happy enough to have the moment immortalized on film that he didn’t kill Sideswipe and Sunstreaker for taking the picture.


	25. FWB

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why does everyone assume the benefit has to be sex?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm perfectly aware that sex is generally the point of this trope :p Sorry to anyone hoping for smut with this one, but the aro/ace bunny hit and I decided to run with it.
> 
> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

Everyone on the base knew Jazz didn’t do relationships. Everyone on the base knew Prowl didn’t do quick flings. So when the two of them started spending a lot of time together — privately together — everyone got confused.

“So… what are you two?” Tracks asked Jazz one day in the commissary. “Are you actually dating someone for once?”

“Nope,” Jazz said cheerfully. “We’re just friends.”

_ “Just  _ friends?”

“With benefits,” Jazz tacked on with an enigmatic smile. “Come on! I’ll race you around the base track a few dozen times.”

Another time Mirage tried asking him about their arrangement. “You’ve stayed with him longer than you have with anyone else.”

“Including you?” Jazz gave him a shrewd look. “I told you going in I don’t do romance or commitment. If you got hurt—”

“I didn’t get hurt.” 

Jazz let that one go, since even though he was pretty sure Mirage had in fact felt a bit hurt when they stopped fragging, he’d successfully gotten over it. He and Hound really were good for each other. “Why does it matter how much time I spend with him?”

“Because things that don’t fit the pattern are interesting, and both of you have established patterns you’re breaking with each other.”

“Please. We’re just friends!”

“‘With benefits’, yes,” Mirage quoted his own oft-used words back at him. “Prowl doesn’t do friends with benefits.”

“Well, he does with me. Maybe I’m just that special.”

“Which is the part that would normally have  _ you  _ running headlong into the arms of someone new.”

“Hmm.” Jazz shrugged noncommittally. “Have fun speculating on that then. I’ve got a mission to prep for.”

Not even the great Ratchet could to get a straight answer out of him. “I have to say, this new relationship you have with Prowl—”

“Ain’t a relationship.” Jazz swung his legs over the side of the medical berth. “Prowl and I are just friends.”

“Friends who consistently spend a lot of time alone together.”

“So? That a crime now?”

“No. I just wanted to say, I’m glad you’re finally giving someone a chance.”

Jazz’s head lolled back and he sighed up at the ceiling. “And I’m glad you’ve decided to believe what you want to believe regardless of what the mechs involved actually have to say about the matter.”

“You  _ don’t  _ say anything about it.”

“Yes, I  _ do.  _ What is it about adding our names to the sentence that makes ‘friends with benefits’ such a hard concept for you people?”

“Maybe because it’s a concept that’s mutually exclusive with the two of you.”

“Heh. Well, we are that.” Jazz hopped down from the berth. “I think we’re done here.”

“We really aren’t.”

“Guess you’re just wrong about multiple things today then, aren’t you?” Jazz gave Ratchet a casual wave as he sauntered out the door. “Later, Ratch. I’m off to spend some ‘mutually exclusive’ time with Prowl.”

Prowl was sitting on the end of his berth reading when Jazz arrived at his quarters. He looked up when the door opened, a slight frown on his face. “You seem stressed.”

“Just don’t have the energy to fight the misunderstandings today,” Jazz said, leaning back against the door as it locked behind him. “Ratchet was being exhausting.”

“Ah. Thank you for the warning. I have an appointment later today myself.”

“Heh. Be prepared to defend your personal choices to a mech who isn’t actually willing to listen then.” Prowl patted the open space on the berth next to him, and Jazz gratefully curled up next to him, pillowing his head on Prowl’s lap. “They all just want us to be one thing so badly.”

“Hmph.” Prowl huffed indignantly. “Indeed. Did you know Ironhide told me yesterday he was happy I was finally letting someone strip my gears on a regular basis like a ‘normal’ mech?”

“Seriously? That’s disgusting.” 

“I rather thought so. But then, you know my opinions on interfacing.” Prowl gently petted Jazz’s helm. “You’re running hot.” 

“I’ll do something about it in a bit. I’m too annoyed to enjoy it right now.” He shifted in Prowl’s lap so he could look up at him. “What’re you reading?”

“A history of mining in the Manganese Mountains.” 

“That’s… fun?”

“Educational,” Prowl said with a soft chuckle. “I’m trying to get a more complete picture of the caves and tunnels that may still be intact in the region.”

Planning for future missions, in other words. Jazz admired his dedication. “Gotcha.” 

“Of course, Sideswipe suggested I should be reading something of a different educational nature if I wanted to ‘keep up with you’ in the berth.”

“Uh huh. As if that’s the reason I’m sharin’ this slab with you.”

“But Jazz,” Prowl said with exaggerated disbelief, “surely that’s the only reason two people would ever choose to spend so much time alone together, especially if they’re going to insist they’re still ‘just’ friends.”

“With benefits,” Jazz added, because it was true. His friendship with Prowl was special, different from all his other friendships even if it wasn’t in the way they thought. “Ain’t my fault everyone assumes there’s only one kind of benefit to be had.”

Prowl chuckled again. “Their loss,” he said. “I’d rather have acceptance than sex any day.”

“And save the judgment along with the romance,” Jazz agreed. Here, where it was just the two of them, neither of them had to feel broken, incomplete, or abnormal.

And that, as far as they were concerned, was the best benefit of all.


	26. Sexworker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl finds unexpected comfort and validation after a hard day at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Mentions of the sex industry and its abuses (trafficking, drugs, pimping, death), overworking

It was an industry worth billions of shanix, as old as the cities themselves, and so widespread there wasn’t a single corner of the planet that wasn’t touched by it somehow. Prowl hated it, but wasn’t naive enough to think anyone would ever be able to eliminate sexwork on Cybertron. The worst of its abuses though; those he vowed to fight against, and his resolve only strengthened with every case he took.

Some of his coworkers said his resentment and bad temper increased with each case too. Prowl ignored them. He was making a difference, and that was all that mattered. He only began to consider that they might have had a point when strangers started commenting on how angry he seemed all the time. Not that Jazz was a stranger. Prowl had encountered the mech in dozens of places around city doing as many odd jobs. Most of them were legal, but every now and then not so much. He always had mixed feelings whenever he saw Jazz as a result, and tonight was no exception. 

“I don’t suppose you’d give me a straight answer if I asked what you were doing here tonight?” he asked, looking him over. He was in good shape — better shape, in fact, than Prowl could remember seeing him in before. His newly painted plating was free of nicks and scratches and polished so it gleamed uniformly in the restaurant’s ambient lighting.

“Yikes. Grumpy  _ and  _ suspicious.” Jazz’s easy smile faltered a bit, his expression morphing into something that looked vaguely worried. “Mind if I join you for a bit? The mech I’m waiting for just pinged to say he’s running late.”

He was meeting someone? What for? Prowl shook his head, dismissing any further lines of inquiry. He wasn’t on the clock. He didn’t need to do anything unless Jazz did something illegal right in front of him. “If you want. I’m not opposed to having company.”

“No? You look like you’re trying to drive it off,” Jazz said, sliding in across from him. “Processor ache?”

Only the same one he’d had since they’d started closing in on the trafficking ring run by Kermes and Vermilio. They’d just completed a raid on one of their warehouses that morning, and the things they’d found… “I’m fine.”

“Liar. You’re holding those doors so rigid I’m surprised you haven’t torqued them into needing realignment.” His frown deepened. “What’s going on that’s got you so angry?”

“I’m not angry!” Prowl snapped, immediately resenting the outburst. “Why does everyone want to make my emotional state their business?”

“Maybe because it looks like you’re only a few degrees short of a critical meltdown and everyone wants to clear the fallout zone?” 

That… actually that sounded about right, given the way his coworkers had been acting around him this afternoon. “Why aren’t you driving for the hills then?”

“Because I’m meeting someone here, not up in the hills.” A waiter stopped by the table to ask if Jazz wanted anything, but Jazz waved him on his way. “And because I’ve never seen you like this before and it looks like you’re hurting.”

“It’s not your problem if I am.” And anyway he wasn’t. He wasn’t hurting. He wasn’t sick and furious over the results of the raid, how few survivors there had been or the condition of the bodies of the dead… 

“Maybe not,” Jazz said, interrupting his spiralling thoughts, “but I’m here, and I’ve got some time to kill. Why not spend it on you?”

“Because I make your life difficult?” 

“Sometimes. Other times you’ve helped me out.”

“I have?” Prowl couldn’t remember doing anything Jazz could consider helpful, unless he was counting the times he’d tipped his (licensed) street playing. “When have I helped you out?”

“Directly? Not often,” Jazz said with a soft chuckle. “But indirectly? Mech, don’t think anyone doesn’t know who the driving force behind the crackdown on trafficking is around here.”

“I can’t imagine that knowledge has endeared me to many.”

“Oh, there’s plenty who resent you for it, but I’m not one of them.” Jazz started to reach across the table, then drew back and folded his hands in front of him on the table. “You do a lot of good in this city, and one of the things you did was get Temperance off the streets.”

“Temperance?” The pimp? Prowl tried to remember any other details about the case. That arrest had been months ago, but he was quite sure Jazz hadn’t been involved. “What did he have to do with you?”

“Me, personally? Nothing. But he was pimping my brother,” Jazz said, visor brightening with what Prowl belatedly realized was gratitude. “Had him so strung out he couldn’t cut loose and wouldn’t let me get near him to pull him out. Then you got the pile of slag thrown behind bars where he belonged, and got Rico into rehab to boot. So yeah — you’ve helped me out big time.”

Rico… Ricochet. Now he remembered. He’d been one of five mechs who’d been in desperate need of detox when they found him, and terrified to go in for treatment he “couldn’t afford”. Prowl had made sure none of them were charged a single shanix for their recovery. “I didn’t know you were related.”

“Really? Most people say the resemblance is uncanny. Twins,” Jazz explained when all Prowl could do was stare blankly. “Guess he must’ve been so bad off it wasn’t obvious at the time.”

He really had been, though now that he knew what to look for, Prowl could see the similarities between the mech he’d left at the rehab center and the one sitting across from him. “How is he doing?” 

“Much better. Moved back in with me after he finished the program, he’s stayed clean so far.” A brief shadow fell across Jazz’s face before his smile reasserted itself. Prowl understood. “Thank you for what you did for him. For us.”

This. This was why he did what he did, why he worked so hard and sacrificed so much. Prowl felt some of the weight he’d been carrying all day leave his shoulders. Of course he would be too late sometimes; of course he couldn’t save everyone. But even though he’d failed the mechs they’d found this morning, he’d made a difference to Jazz and Ricochet. “Thank you for telling me,” he said softly. “I don’t think I realized how much I needed some good news tonight.”

“I did,” Jazz said simply, then stood. “Time to go meet my date. Take care of yourself, alright? You can’t help anyone if you burn yourself out, and believe me — we’d all feel your loss.”

Prowl stared after Jazz as he walked away, shoulder still tingling where Jazz had patted it. Warmth from the simple, supportive gesture spread throughout his frame, banishing the tension in his doorwings. Prowl gratefully rested them on the back of his chair, suddenly unable to hold them up. Ironically, the release only made his processor ache worse, but his spark hadn’t felt so light in ages.


	27. Internet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting someone you've only ever talked to online can be surprising!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: None

“You’re not seriously doing this  _ again, _ are you?”

“Aww, you say that like you think I’m going to get beaten up and mugged.”

“Or drugged and— and,” Ricochet said, incredibly helpful hand gestures illustrating the words he left out. “How can you still think this is a good idea after last time?”

“Hey, all that happened last time was getting dragged along for a pub crawl with a bunch of strangers.” Jazz turned again in front of the mirror, checking his finish one last time. “How do I look?”

“Honestly? You look like a moron about to be taken for all he’s worth.  _ Again,”  _ Ricochet stressed. “That pub crawl lasted for three days! You can’t afford that!”

“‘I’ can’t afford it?” Jazz sighed. “Look, I know you’re worried about me and I appreciate that, and I know you don’t want to be stuck bailing me out and I appreciate that too, but this isn’t a casual hookup off some friends app, Rico. I’ve known this mech for over a year now on the racing forum. He’s not a creep, or a crook, or whatever other awful things you’re imagining.”

“Oh? What’s his name then? And before you even try it, no, ‘PhantomChaserPWNG’ doesn’t count.”

“Why not? Phantom only knows me as Meister.”

“Ah yes, of course. RoadMeister9000, aka my brother the idiot.” Ricochet made a derisive backfiring noise. “I don’t think you should go.”

“You’ve made that perfectly clear. As, I hope, I’ve made it clear I don’t care what you think.” Satisfied with his appearance, Jazz headed for the door. He glared at Ricochet when his brother threw an arm out to block him. “Don’t you even,” Jazz warned. “Don’t try to stop me, and don’t try to follow me. I let you fall on your face and land in the lockup for a night over your stupid ring fights, didn’t I?”

Ricochet flinched, then slowly retracted his arm. “Yeah, well, maybe that experience is why I don’t want to have to pick  _ you  _ up at the lockup. Or the hospital.”

“For Primus’ sake, we’re not meeting up to race. We’re just saying hi and getting lunch,” Jazz promised. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

“You better.”

If he’d had optics to roll, Jazz would have once he finally made it out of the apartment. Ricochet could be so obnoxiously overprotective sometimes! Which could have almost been sweet, if it weren’t so hypocritical. Oh, well. Whatever. With a quick shake to brush off the argument, Jazz transformed and set off for the plaza. He’d been looking forward to meeting Phantom ever since he’d messaged that he was going to be in town for the week and asked if Jazz wanted to meet up while he was here. The mech was absolutely dead set against revealing any personal details on the forum where they’d met, and Jazz was eager to put a face and a voice to their many conversations.

Was it suspicious that he didn’t want to identify himself online? Maybe Ricochet thought so, but it wasn’t like Jazz ever posted pictures of himself or used his real name either. Not on  _ that  _ forum, which skirted the line between legal track racing and illegal street racing. Phantom was probably just taking precautions to avoid any misunderstandings or trouble with the police, same as Jazz. 

Since he didn’t have the mech’s personal frequency, or even a description of him, Jazz pulled up the forum on his HUD when he arrived at the plaza and messaged that he was waiting by the fountain. Hopefully that would be enough for Phantom to guess who he was and approach him, since no one else was currently standing right beside the low wall. At this time of day the big jets were off and only the shorter ones were on, burbling away quietly to circulate the weak acid. As always there was an assortment of shanix chips from people making wishes and other debris from people being rude littering the bottom, and Jazz had to restrain himself from reaching in to fish out the trash and put it in the bin where it belonged.

“Trying to decide what to wish for?” someone asked, and Jazz turned to find an Enforcer had joined him.

“Yeah,” Jazz said quickly, not wanting the mech to think he’d been thinking about littering (even though he’d been thinking the exact opposite). “Just, you know, killing some time while I wait for a friend.”

“That friend wouldn’t happen to go by the name of ‘Phantom’, would he?” Before Jazz could get a real panic going beyond  _ ohPrimusRicowasrightI’mgoingtojail!  _ the mech smiled and held out a hand. “PhantomChaserPWNG, at your service.”

Jazz let out an explosive vent that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh of relief. “RoadMeister9000,” he said, taking the mech’s hand. “Or, you know, just Jazz.” 

“Jazz,” he said slowly, like he was testing the word. “Forgive me if I slip and continue to call you Meister.”

“Not a problem.” Nope, there was no problem here whatsoever, though Jazz couldn’t help but think it was no  _ wonder  _ the mech didn’t want his screen name associated with his real identity if he was a cop. “What should I call you?”

“Phantom is fine, though my given designation is Prowl.” 

“Prowl, huh?” It did feel weird using a different name for him, even though it was a nice one. “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you! Wish you’d given me some kind of warning though,” Jazz laughed. “I thought you were going to arrest me!”

“Yes, I saw that on your face. Should I be concerned that there is something you deserve to be arrested for?” He was still smiling, making it clear the question was in jest, not accusation. “For what it’s worth, I don’t have jurisdiction here to do anything of the sort.”

“That’s a relief,” Jazz teased back. “And no, there isn’t anything. My brother was just giving me scrap before I left about meeting strangers off the internet, so my processor went off into worst-case scenarios before I could stop it.”

“Well, he is right that you should be careful about meeting strangers off the internet.”

“Strangers, sure. But like I said,” Jazz smiled hopefully. “You’re a friend.”

There was a slight easing of tension in the mech’s doowings, and Jazz realized he hadn’t been the only one who was a little nervous. “As are you,” Phantom-Prowl said. “Shall we find a place to sit? I’d love to continue our conversation about rumble strips and whether or not they make effective deterrents.”

Jazz chuckled. “You’re on the forum doing covert research to try to crack down on street racing, aren’t you?”

“I’ll admit to that being part of my initial motivation for signing up, but it’s not like I was assigned to infiltrate the board as an undercover cop.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “I decided to undertake it on my own to try to understand what mechs saw in such a dangerous activity and see what might be done to discourage it.”

“And?” Knowing the mech was a cop put a lot of things he’d said into new context, and Jazz found himself wondering how he’d never guessed before. “Did you get anything useful out of it?”

“I got you,” he pointed out with a grin. “I didn’t get what I hoped to on a professional level, but I found something much more valuable — a space where I could be something, someone, other than my job. It’s the first thing anyone ever notices about me,” he said wryly, and Jazz didn’t miss the point, “and most people don’t bother to look past my paint.”

“Well, I’m not going to make that mistake,” Jazz promised, both an assurance and a reminder. Phantom was his friend, had been for more than a year, and finding out Phantom-was-Prowl-was-an-Enforcer didn’t change that. It just added new layers to him. “Come on. There’s a cafe just the other side of the plaza that not only has the best energon slush in the city, but a rumble strip out front that does absolutely nothing to stop anyone who’s determined to blow the speed limit.”


	28. Gym

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehab's a lot easier when you aren't going it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Mentions of traumatic injuries incurred under traumatic circumstances, references to completely bogus canon evens in different continuities that I refuse to acknowledge as real :p

It hurt.

It hurt  _ a lot. _

Prowl gasped and collapsed only a few steps in, vents laboring painfully to draw air into his shuddering engine. 

“Take your time,” his therapist said, not moving to help him. “There’s no rush. Take a moment to rest, then get back up.”

In that moment Prowl absolutely hated the mech, but he grit his teeth and tightened his grip on the parallel bars on either side of his frame, preparing himself to try again. This was hardly his first time in rehab, and he knew the only way to recover was to work through the pain. 

“Steady; focus on balance and stability first, then movement.” Unlike the last therapist Prowl had been assigned — and refused to work with — this one spoke with a blend of concern and confidence rather than coddling condescension. Prowl approved of his style, even if the pain he was in made him want to hit the mech over the head with the equipment — nevermind there was no way he could possibly lift any of it when it was all he could do to bear his own weight.

Channeling that anger to give him strength, Prowl hauled himself back to his feet.

An agonizing hour later he’d taken a grand total of twenty-two shuffling steps. He’d successfully gotten himself turned around at the end of the platform to walk back to his wheelchair, but had needed help getting back into it when his engine decided that no, it really had done enough for one day and any further effort now would result in re-injury rather than recovery. Prowl let the therapist wheel him over to the side of the room to rest where he could watch some of the others struggling through their own sessions. It was meant to be motivating, but Prowl was having trouble seeing through the haze of strain-induced static overlaying his vision. It reminded him of smoke; thick, choking smoke billowing up from his own engine, scorching his internals as it rose up through his systems to pour from his mouth and—

“Hey.” 

A hand. Someone was holding his hand. Prowl doubled over as his engine caught, sending him into a fit of coughing that highlighted every single ache in his newly-healing frame. 

“Shh.” He felt another hand on his back, rubbing gentle, soothing circles just above the joint assembly of his left doorwing. “Slow, even vents, that’s it. You’re okay.”

It was several minutes before Prowl felt strong enough to sit back up. The mech at his side helped him when he finally started to move, but after resetting his optics to clear his vision Prowl could see he wasn’t a therapist. Not with the massive, fresh scarring over his midsection and those braces hanging from his arms. “Thank you,” Prowl said, proud that his voice only shook a little. “Shouldn’t you sit down?”

“Absolutely,” the mech said, grabbing a chair and doing just that. He fell back into it with a groan and a wince, head tilting to keep his visor pointed at Prowl. “My therapist’ll have my hide for sprinting over here like that, but it looked like you were goin’ into a panic.”

“I was.” Not for the first time, and certainly not the last. “Thank you for intervening.”

“Glad you were easy to ground.” A clawed, silver hand reached out, resting on the arm of Prowl’s chair beside his own to make “shaking” easy. “I’m Jazz. Been coming here for the past three weeks.”

“Prowl,” Prowl responded, shifting his arm so his hand rested in Jazz’s. “Today’s my first day.”

“This time,” Jazz said shrewdly, and Prowl nodded. “Thought so. You looked like you knew what you were doin’ over there.”

Prowl would have shrugged if the movement wouldn’t have taken far too much effort. “Occupational hazard, though this is the worst injury I’ve ever sustained on the beat by far.”

“I know how that goes.” A shadow passed over Jazz’s visor as he brought his other hand to the scars on his torso. “A mech shouldn’t have to learn how to walk more than once in his life!”

A small smile was the only expression Prowl allowed his humor; laughing would have hurt too much. “And how many times does this make that you’ve had to relearn it?”

“Four. Can’t say I recommend it, though if you’re going to get yourself blown up to the point of needing extensive repairs, might I suggest you stick to reintegrating limbs? That’s way easier to get over than chassis injuries.”

“It is at that.” Retraining manual dexterity into his new hand a few years ago was infinitely preferable to this. “Next time I’ll ask politely if the bad guys with laser rifles wouldn’t mind aiming for my legs instead of my engine.”

Jazz laughed quietly, then flinched as the movement caused him to slide down in his seat. “Let me know if that works,” he said, pulling his hand out of Prowl’s and positioning his arms so he could use his walking braces to push himself more upright in his chair. “Bad guys aren’t exactly known for their listening skills.”

“They really aren’t.” Prowl wasn’t sure it was okay to ask, but, “What did they do to you?”

“Oh, nothing serious. Just tore me in half a little bit.” Jazz grinned when Prowl’s jaw dropped. “I do love the reaction that gets. Almost makes having to do all the rehab worth it.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah…” The grin faded. “The slagger who got his hands on me got away. We busted most of his crew, but he managed to slip through the net at the last minute.”

“Ah.” Jazz was an operative then. Prowl had been starting to wonder. He let the subject drop, knowing the mech wouldn’t be able to talk about the details of a classified case. “So how much more rehab do you have ahead of you?”

“Not sure, honestly. The doc thought it’d be at least a month before I was even out of bed, but even though I showed him on that score I haven’t been making much headway on endurance. Can’t stand unsupported for more than a few minutes,” he tapped one of the braces, “and I get fatigued really fast. Why?” His smile came back. “Looking for a workout buddy?”

“I… yes,” Prowl said, realizing he would actually like that despite having only asked about Jazz’s recovery as a safe topic of conversation. “It helps to have someone to commiserate with.”

“And share small victories with,” Jazz said knowingly. “You got it, partner.”

This time Prowl made the effort to extend his arm beyond the edge of his chair. Jazz quickly reached out to take it, letting the combined weight of their hands rest on his brace. Prowl gave his fingers a firm squeeze; a promise. “Let’s learn to walk again together.”


	29. Time Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time travel doesn't actually solve everything, especially when there are sacrifices you aren't willing to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: Near death experience, cave in, because time travel equals trapped in a cave now apparently, but no one actually dies for real I promise, because time travel

“If you could go back in time and change one moment, do one thing differently, what would it be?”

Prowl didn’t bother powering his optics back up. “You mean, something like preventing ourselves from getting trapped in here with no fuel and no way out?”

“Ha!” Jazz’s voice echoed in the darkness. “Something like that, yeah. Or maybe something bigger, like going back and killing Megatron.”

“In an effort to avert the war? It wouldn’t work.”

“Oh, come on.” Jazz’s plating shuffled as he repositioned himself. Prowl still didn’t bother to look at him. “You can’t honestly say we wouldn’t all have been better off without him.”

“Perhaps not, but I can say he wasn’t the sole catalyst of this conflict. Taking him out early on would not have prevented the war, only changed the way it played out.”

“Yeah? Well it’d be hard for it to play out much worse.”

Prowl sighed. “Jazz, are you seriously getting upset because in the event a hypothetical time travel device fell into my lap I wouldn’t use it to kill Megatron?”

“…No.” Jazz’s engine let out a frustrated rev. “I’m getting upset because we’re going to die in here unless a hypothetical time travel device lands in our laps, and that’s looking pretty unlikely at his point.”

“‘Pretty unlikely’?” Prowl repeated. “What makes you think that’s even—”

“Nothing’s impossible, Prowl,” Jazz interrupted with an audible grin. “But if a time travel device was ever going to land in our laps it either one, already would have, two, will any second now, and I don’t see any impossible tech  _ vopping!  _ itself into existence around here—”

“You can’t see anything, we’re in the middle of a pitch black—”

“—and three, if there was a future for it to come to us in, one of us would have already used it to come back and save our sorry afts from this cave-in.”  

Prowl waited to see if Jazz was done talking before speaking this time. “I thought you were just saying you’d use it go back and kill Megatron.”

“Which would save our sorry afts from this cave-in, because, as you were so quick to point out, the war would play out differently without him. Or,” Jazz said with a scrape of metal-on-stone that probably meant he’d just shrugged, “you’d have used it to come up with a better plan for this battle so we wouldn’t have wound up stuck in here.”

“I would have, would I?” 

“Course you would have! You’d have at least saved yourself, anyway.”

“No.” Prowl rolled onto his side, optics flaring to life so he could see Jazz to pull him into his arms. Jazz let out a startled squawk of surprise. “I would not save myself without you.”

“Uh… Thanks?” Prowl couldn’t see Jazz’s face where it was pressed against his shoulder, but he could feel the confusion in his field. “You okay there? You’re not usually so emotional.”

“Well, we are about to die,” Prowl pointed out. “Probably.”

“Mech, unless you radioed our coordinates to someone before this whole place came crashing down so they can mount a rescue, there’s no probably about it.” The words were flippant, but there was real fear warring with hope as he asked, “Did you?”

“I did,” Prowl admitted, “but it won’t matter in another,” he checked his chronometer, “two minutes.”

“Two minutes?” Now Jazz sounded really confused. “What happens in two minutes?”

“The  _ Thanatos  _ is going to explode. It will wipe out every other ship in both fleets and most of this moon, leaving no survivors.”

“Uh huh. And you know this because…?” 

“Because this is the seventeenth time I have lost this battle.” Prowl quirked a wry smile. “Of all the topics you could have chosen to pass the time, I hardly expected you to start talking about time travel.”

“Wait.  _ Wait.”  _ Jazz pulled back, his face an absolute study in disbelief. “You’re telling me you actually  _ have  _ a time travel device? And you’ve been using it to try and win this battle  _ sixteen times  _ already? And  _ burying us alive  _ is your best plan after that much trial and error?!”

It sounded terrible when he put it that way, but, “Yes.”

_ “Prowl!”  _ Jazz let out a sound that couldn’t seem to decide whether it wanted to be a whine or a laugh. “That’s not funny. That is so not funny. Please never tell another joke for however much longer we happen to live.”

“…I’m sorry.” He supposed it did come across a bit like a cruel joke. What had he been thinking, that Jazz would actually believe him? Maybe he should be hoping this plan would fail too, that in a minute they’d still be blown to atoms along with everything else in this corner of the solar system despite his attempt to shield them deep beneath the surface of the moon. Of course, if they did die again, Prowl wasn’t sure what he’d try next. If only he had the power to go further back! But he didn’t, and that made avoiding the battle impossible. They were doomed to fight it, to die in it, unless Prowl could find a way for them to survive — together. Because Prowl had seen right away how to make it out alive on his own, but he wasn’t saving himself without Jazz. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jazz said. “I’ll just chalk it up to the stress of our imminent demise getting to you.” Imminent indeed. There were only thirty seconds left. “But I don’t want to spend whatever time we have left mad at you.”

“I would prefer that also.”

Somehow, Jazz still managed to laugh. “Alright then. How much time do you have before you drop into stasis?”

“At most, optimizing all my systems for minimal fuel consumption?” Twenty seconds. “Three days.”

“Heh. Guess you’ll be outlasting me then. I’ve only got about a day and a half.”

“Perhaps I will simply initiate stasis at that point myself.” Assuming they actually did survive the blast that was about to go off, which Prowl wasn’t entirely confident of. But if they did, his plan was to wait until the inevitable scout ships came to search for answers and found them in stasis, some of the only larger-than-dust objects remaining in the area. “It will be boring without you to talk to.”

“Heh. Is that why you said you wouldn’t save yourself without me? So you wouldn’t be bored?”

Ten. Nine.

“Boredom is a fate worse than death.”

“For a mech with your processor.”

Eight. Seven. “Pot, kettle.” Jazz was more likely to suffer ill effects from boredom than Prowl, though Prowl had a lower tolerance for it than many attributed him with. “Admit it, you’re not sorry you’ll run out first.”

“Honestly?” Six. Five. “I’m sorry either of us has to run out.”

“Yeah.” Four. “Me too.” 

Three. 

“Prowl?” 

Two.

“Yes?” 

_ One. _

“I—”

The shockwave hit. Jazz’s visor flared as his head turned automatically in the direction of the explosion, then back to look at Prowl. No words carried over the cacophony of heat and pressure and pain, but Prowl saw his lips form the words,  _ “How? You…”  _ And then, most sparkbreakingly of all,  _ “Go back.” _

He believed him. He really believed him. Prowl pulled Jazz in close, kissing the top of his helm as he prepared to make the jump. If Jazz could believe him, perhaps he just needed to find a way to convince him before they reached the endgame. Then, just maybe, they could find a way to win.

Together.

Prowl jerked awake in his quarters on the  _ Axalon.  _ He had a new plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Time travel is not my favorite gimmick ever. I usually find myself wishing it was handled differently/better when I come across it in stories, and writing a time travel fic that would live up to what I want to read in one would have required a heck of a lot more time than I have available to devote to a short daily fill. Coming up with something for today was really hard, so in the end I just started typing and wound up with this. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ It's a strange critter, but I hope you enjoy it.


	30. Roommates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](https://eerian-sadow.tumblr.com/post/176558407563/thegirlinthebyakko-frau-argh): "One of my friends set me up on a blind date with one of his friends. Turns out it was my roommate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: College setting, mentions of casual sex

_ Thwap! _

Prowl looked down at the polishing cloth on his foot and sighed. “Jazz, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” His roommate half-turned to peer over his shoulder from the depths of the closet he was digging through. “I’m trying to find my good polish!”

“And throwing things at me?” Prowl held up the cloth and waved it before tossing it back at Jazz. “I thought you said you needed to buy more anyway.”

“I do! But I could have sworn I had enough left for one more use. If I could just find where I stashed the tin…” 

He was going to empty out the entire contents of the closet all over their room if Prowl didn’t stop him. “Why the sudden need for polish?” he asked, making his way over to his own, much more organized, stash. “Matte or gloss?” 

“Gloss,” Jazz said absently, then smiled when he realized what Prowl was offering. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver!” 

“Just trying to save my own sanity,” Prowl said, lunging forward to steady Jazz as he tripped on his way out of the closet. “So. What’s the occasion?”

“Got a blind date tonight,” Jazz replied. “A friend’s hooking me up with a friend at the homecoming shindig.”

“Ah. And you’re hoping to make a good enough impression to charm your way into a private party afterward?” Prowl teased, passing over the polish. “Just make sure you go over to his place if you get lucky.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s your turn with the room tonight.” In a show of consideration, Jazz turned around and shoved his things back into the closet and wedged the door shut, hiding the mess from sight before Prowl could comment. “Ta da! Now your newest fling won’t have to know you live with a total slob.”

“You’re not a  _ total  _ slob. Just… mostly.” Jazz made a face, followed by a rude gesture. Prowl just snorted and went back to his desk. “I hope you have a good time. If the date ends up being a total bust—”

“Don’t come crying to you about it,” Jazz recited, “but call you if I get in trouble. Don’t worry, I know. Same goes for you.” He laughed on his way out the door. “So I better not hear from you until tomorrow!”

“Likewise!” 

Once he was alone, Prowl took a moment to assess the state of his own plating. It would do, he decided. No need to make his own trip to the communal washracks, even though he had a blind date of his own to look forward to. His usual activities didn’t deteriorate his finish the same way Jazz’s did, so his last polish was holding up nicely. A quick pass with a cloth to buff himself up before heading out the door would be enough.

He still almost made himself late, despite not needing a lot of time to get ready. Prowl could already hear Smokescreen teasing him about losing track of time as he pulled up to the campus track-turned-party-arena, and no sooner had he transformed than the words in his head rang out over the noise of the crowd in his classmate’s voice. “What gives, Prowl? Having so much fun with that term paper you forgot your promise not to stand me up?”

“I didn’t forget,” Prowl said with a good-natured roll of his optics, “and I didn’t stand anyone up, you or your mystery friend.”

“You almost did,” Smokescreen laughed. “Seriously, we’ve got the whole rest of the weekend to do homework. Tonight’s about having a good time!”

“And here I am, ready to have a good time.” And prepared to relax and recover from said good time tomorrow without putting undue pressure on himself the following day to finish before the deadline. “So? Who am I supposed to be having a good time with?”

“Right this way,” Smokescreen said, gesturing Prowl to follow him inside. “He got here way before you did, and even took the time to shine up a bit! Seriously, I feel an intense need to slap some glitter on you or something.”

“Oh, no.” Absolutely not. Temp paint was one thing, but glitter  _ itched.  _ “If you’re suddenly too embarrassed to admit you know me because I refuse to wear glitter, prepare to do our presentation next week on your own.”

“Harsh!” But Smokescreen backed down. “Fine, no glitter. Just don’t blame me if he thinks you’re too boring to take home for the night.”

_ “I’ll  _ be the one bringing  _ him  _ home, thank you very much. Assuming he doesn’t bore me.”

“I thought you had a roommate?”

“I do, but he’s— Jazz?”

“Prowl?”

“Hey! Looks like I don’t need to introduce you two after all,” Smokescreen said, completely oblivious to their stunned disbelief. “That said: Prowl, Jazz, Jazz, Prowl. My friend,” he clapped his hand on Jazz’s shoulder, “and my lab partner!” Prowl barely felt the hand on his shoulder as he struggled to process the sheer magnitude of coincidence he was looking at, and as such was taken completely by surprise when that hand yanked him forward into his roommate. “You two have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

For a moment they just stared at each other after Smokescreen danced away. Then Jazz broke down snickering. “I can’t believe you never told me that  _ Smokey  _ was your lab partner. He and I have been friends for years!”

“I didn’t know you knew each other,” Prowl admitted. “I only met him this semester, and we usually just talk about our coursework. Have you really never mentioned me to him?”

“Not by name — whenever I talk about you I just say, ‘my roommate’.”

“Kind of like ‘your friend’ set you up with a blind date tonight?” 

“Yeah. Hope you’re not trying to imply this is all my fault,” Jazz said, nudging Prowl with his elbow. “You could’ve at least told me you had an actual date tonight. Then I could have asked who it was and maybe Smokescreen’s name would have come up!”

“An ‘actual’ date? My hookups might be casual, but I don’t usually go in completely blind,” Prowl defended. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this date, except—”

“That Smokescreen is a persistent pest? Trust me, you don’t need to tell me. He’s always been like that, and I swear he gets worse every year.” Jazz looked around at the party getting underway. “So what do you want to do? Split up and mingle, or try it on for a night?” 

“Jazz, we’re roommates.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed!” Jazz laughed. “Hey, we already know we can live together without killing each other. Why not see if we’re compatible in other ways too?”

“I didn’t think you had any interest in me.”

“Likewise. But then, we’re roommates. I figured that took you off the table so I just didn’t go there, you know?”

He did know. Prowl had never considered Jazz in any other capacity beyond roommate and friend either. “But now we’re both thinking about it.”

“Oh, good! I was afraid it was just me and I’d gone and made things awkward.” 

“You’re the one standing there flirting with me wearing  _ my  _ polish,” Prowl teased, softening the blow with a smile. “It looks good on you, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stared at each other for another minute, really  _ looking  _ at each other in a way they never had before. Prowl liked what he saw enough to try, but, “What if it doesn’t go well?”

“Then we… blame it on how much we had to drink tonight and pretend it didn’t happen?” Jazz didn’t move away; if anything, he slid in closer. “If we  _ don’t  _ try it now we’ll just keep thinking about it until something gives and we try it anyway, and that’ll end way worse than just getting it out of the way if it turns out it’s a bad idea.”

Prowl couldn’t argue with that. “In that case, I guess there’s only one thing for it.” He took Jazz’s arm and turned them in the direction of the punch bowl. “Can I offer my date a drink?”

Jazz grinned and leaned into him eagerly. “Absolutely! But I have to warn you, if you’re hoping to get lucky, my roommate threw me out for the night.”

“That’s alright,” Prowl said, already wondering how soon was too soon to think about leaving the party. “We can use my room.”


	31. Dealer's Choice (Mr. and Mrs. Smith)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of [Secret Identities](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526128/chapters/36584451), in which we straight up call this a Mr. and Mrs. Smith AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags/Warnings: aftermath of massive violence and property damage, moles, manipulation, shadowplay, murder, major character death (NO not Prowl or Jazz, but another named canon character does die in here, sorry ~~not sorry~~ ), therapy, innuendo

Prowl woke to sunlight streaming through singed and torn curtains into the remains of their living room. He lay still, swallowing a groan of pain. He ached absolutely everywhere, and his self repair had generated a list of notifications so long his HUD had truncated it. The enormous block of text actually crowded out his chronometer and other alerts when he opened it in full to see if there was anything he needed to act on. 

A soft chuckle had him looking down at Jazz to check on him. His conjunx lay curled up at his side, blue visor dim with lingering sleepiness. “If you’re not hurting as much as I am right now,” he said with a lazy, sideways grin, “I will hate you forever.”

“Liar.” Ignoring his frame’s protests at the movement, Prowl pulled Jazz around in his arms so he could kiss him soundly. “If you were capable of hating me, you would have killed me last night.”

“Point.” Another chuckle. “Guess that must mean I love you.”

“And I love you.” He’d said the words over and over in the night between frantic rounds of fragging so rough and desperate he had as many notices about the condition of his interface array as he did for every other part of his frame, but it bore repeating. “I love you so much.”

“I’ll never doubt that again.” With a pained groan of his own, Jazz extricated himself from their embrace and sat up, his visor now fully lit with wakeful curiosity. “That said, I’d love to know why you tried to burn me when you love me so much —  _ Boss.” _

Prowl felt an intense desire to roll over, to hide from the embarrassment. “That was a misunderstanding.”

“Uh, yeah. Got that far on my own, thanks.” Jazz reached out and turned his chin toward him, stopping him from looking away. “Hey. The therapist said we need to work on being honest with each other, right? So talk to me. Honestly. I think,” he added wryly, “the biggest secret is out of the bag at this point.”

“I still can’t believe I didn’t know.” How had he managed to fall in love with and marry one of his own agents without ever realizing? “So much for being the all-seeing mastermind. I should have known who you were, but somehow I never connected Meister with Jazz. Your file — Meister’s file — has his civilian identity marked down as Marshal.”

“I mean, that’s not  _ wrong,”  _ Jazz said with a shrug. “It only goes down one layer though. I’ve been in this business a long time, you know.”

“I thought I did.” When Prowl had first brought Meister into his agency, he’d done what he thought was an extensive check on the mech. He’d had fantastic credentials, and Prowl hadn’t had a single problem with him since he’d hired him… which was why he’d been completely shocked by his apparent betrayal. “I’m starting to wonder if I actually know anything anymore. I was so sure you — Meister — was the one responsible for the intel leak.”

“We have an intel leak?”

“Yes.” Prowl sat up too, pushing aside some of the furniture debris to make room. “The Institute has been poaching targets from us, more than coincidence can account for. They’ve been strategically undermining our missions for a little over a year now, and it’s been getting worse.”

“Oh.” Prowl saw the metaphorical light bulb go off behind Jazz’s visor. “That’s why you started getting distant, isn’t it?”

It was a large part of it, and Prowl admitted as much. “I was becoming more and more overworked and paranoid, searching for a mole I couldn’t find, worrying that maybe  _ I’d  _ been compromised somehow. There was already so much secrecy between us, and suddenly I couldn’t even trust myself. I could feel us drifting apart but I didn’t know how to fix it, didn’t have  _ time  _ to fix it. I’d hoped seeing a therapist would at least buy me time to solve things at work before I lost you.”

“You weren’t going to lose me.” One of Jazz’s hands closed over his. “I wondered if something was going on at work, but I didn’t know how to help. Every time I tried, you… pfft. Of course you withdrew even more every time I tried to pry about work,” he laughed. “You didn’t want poor innocent Jazz finding out you ordered hits for a living.”

“Would  _ you  _ have wanted poor innocent Prowl to find out you carry out hits for a living?” Prowl countered, unable to help laughing alongside his conjunx. “You know, it’s almost a shame Rung won’t be able to appreciate the irony if we tell him he was right that we should have just been completely honest with each other because it turns out it solved all our problems.”

“Not all our problems, if we’ve got a leak you thought I was responsible for.” Jazz frowned. “Why  _ did  _ you think it was me?”

“Evidence came back after the last failed mission,” Prowl began, then paused. It had looked solid at the time, but, “Someone must have planted it.”

“The real mole trying to frame me,” Jazz said, voicing the conclusion Prowl had just arrived at. “The question is, why? And, more importantly: what are we going to do about it?”

“We?”

“Yes, we! Whoever this creep is, they tried to kill me and ruin my conjunx’s rep!” Jazz huffed and crossed his arms petulantly “Not cool. Meister does not forgive.” 

“Neither do I. That said,” Prowl looked around the room pointedly, “we may need to do something about this first. At the very least, we should cover the windows. Everyone on the block is going to think we tried to murder each other if they look inside.”

“I mean, we kind of  _ did.”  _ Jazz hauled himself to his feet, then offered Prowl a hand up. “On the bright side, now we can totally remodel the house?”

“There is that.” Prowl winced as he got a good look at the scratches, scorches, and dents littering Jazz’s frame. “I’m sorry.”

Jazz smiled a bit sadly. “Me too.”

As they got to work patching up the curtains and each other, Prowl could only hope they’d be able to look back on the whole mess and laugh someday.

.

.

.

Sneaking into headquarters this time was much easier than it had been before. Of course, it helped that this time Prowl wasn’t trying to kill him, and was even disabling certain security measures as he crept along to make his job easier. They’d decided the best way to begin flushing out the real mole was to go over all the evidence together from the top, but since it was looking like the culprit was probably one of the other mechs who frequented headquarters, they didn’t want to advertise Jazz’s presence. 

It would be better if the fragger thought Prowl was still gunning for Meister right up until they could plunge a vibroblade into his spark.

“Boo,” Jazz announced when he reached the vent above Prowl’s desk. “Anyone but you see me?”

“No. Infiltration successful.” The small smile on his face made Jazz’s spark spin as he dropped down into the office, and he couldn’t resist swooping in for a quick kiss. Prowl kissed back, then pulled away and got back to business. “I was going to give you the first failed mission I attributed to the mole to start with, but it occurs to me you might see something I missed in an earlier case, so I’m just going to give you everything and let you review it without any of my observations first.”

“Sounds like a good approach. How much did you redact to protect confidential information?” Jazz asked, taking the datachip Prowl pressed into his hand. “Or does being married mean I have full access?” he added cheekily.

“Sorry, being married only means you have full access to my frame.” Prowl’s small smile took on a subtle leer, and Jazz laughed at the joke at the same time his engine revved in appreciation. “As far as that chip is concerned, a full partner would have unrestricted access to all of the firm’s information. Consider this a… preview, of sorts.”

“Partner?” Was he seriously offering… “You want me to help you run the business? Just like that?”

“It’s hardly just like that. And you have all the qualifications I could ask for, including the most important of all: I trust you.”

Warmth spread throughout Jazz’s frame, rushing from his spark to flood his field to the point he couldn’t contain it. “People will think I slept my way into the position,” he said in a feeble attempt to cover how much hearing that meant to him, and how deeply he returned the sentiment. 

“Most won’t even know anything has changed,” Prowl pointed out. “And if any of the handful who do decide to complain, I can tell them they’re welcome to try seducing me, marrying me, and spending six years sleeping with me to get a promotion.”

“Ha! As if I’d let them get that far,” Jazz laughed, twirling the datachip between his fingers. “Where do you want me to set up?”

“If the goal is to remain unnoticed, somewhere out of sight would be best.”

“Well, there’s only two places in here where I’ll be out of sight, and since neither of us would get anything done if I crawled under your desk,” Jazz teased, gratified by he way Prowl’s doors twitched, “I’ll go back up in the vents.”

It was probably a weird place to feel cozy, but it didn’t take long for Jazz to settle into his hiding place and start sifting through the truly impressive amount of information Prowl had handed him. Yikes. The more he read, the more he began to see the Institute’s involvement everywhere. More than poaching missions in an attempt to one-up them, Jazz could see the signs of a careful pattern of escalation designed to collapse their organization from within. It was dirty and underhanded and an awful lot of effort to go to just to eliminate a competitor. If they had a mole in deep enough to do this much damage, why hadn’t they used him to assassinate Prowl instead of sabotage him?

Not that Jazz wanted anyone assassinating Prowl, but from a professional standpoint, it would have made more sense. Unless there was more going on here than simple competition… 

“Tumbler. I wasn’t expecting you today.”

Jazz disengaged himself from the data scrolling on his HUD and peered down through the slats of the vent cover. Who was Tumbler?

“I wasn’t expecting to be in today either, but I had to pick up something from my office and thought I’d see how you were doing after the break-in yesterday. It was Meister, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“Did he do all that to you?” The speaker stepped up to Prowl’s desk and into Jazz’s range of vision: orange and yellow, white helm, yellow visor. He wasn’t anyone Jazz recognized, but Prowl must have known him well, judging by his relaxed (for him) posture. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live,” Prowl said crisply, “and I gave as good as I got.”

“Does that mean he’s no longer a threat?”

“It means I’m dealing with him.”

“Well, let me know if you decide you need help dealing with him.” A white hand slid across the desk to rest over one of Prowl’s, and Prowl let it. Jazz pushed down a wave of jealousy. There was nothing wrong with one friend being concerned for another and wanting to be supportive. “You know I’ve got your back, right?”

“I do, and I appreciate it, but it won’t be necessary,” Prowl said calmly. “I’m working on laying a new trap as we speak. Meister won’t be anyone’s problem ever again by this time tomorrow.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Something wasn’t right… Jazz didn’t know what about Tumbler was rubbing him the wrong way, but while jealousy was no basis to dislike the mech, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on was setting off all the warning signs. 

Tumbler’s visor darkened slightly.  _ Suspicion! Intent!  _ Jazz had one of his knives in his hand ready to throw before the thought to grab it could finish forming. “You fought him hand to hand, right?”

Prowl hesitated ever so slightly before answering, “Yes. Why is that significant?” 

“Because if you really saw his face,” Tumbler said in a voice like clouds gathering, “you wouldn’t be this calm talking about killing your conjunx.” His hand shifted, tightening on Prowl’s wrist to yank him forward over the surface of his desk. Prowl cried out in pain and surprise. “What aren’t you telling meee _eau **gh!”**_

****

****

“His conjunx, huh?” Jazz said as he dropped from the vent, a second knife appearing between his fingers to replace the one currently imbedded in Tumbler’s sparking, useless visor. “And just how do  _ you  _ know he’s married to Meister when even he had no idea?”

Tumbler staggered backward, clutching at the knife in his face. Prowl sat back up and stared at him, shaken. “Why?” he asked, remarkably calm considering the confusion and hurt on his face. “When?”

“Did I start working for the Institute, you mean?” Tumbler spat, hissing in pain as he pulled the knife free. Jazz stepped in front of Prowl, not trusting the mech couldn’t throw the knife blind. “Since you refused to acknowledge my skills, of course! Unlike you,  _ they  _ actually know how to use the full range of my talents! I was  _ wasted  _ here and you didn’t care, even when I told you I could do more!”

“I gave you more. The only missions I refused to assign you were ones I felt were too dangerous.”

“Exactly:  _ you  _ felt they were too dangerous. I could have handled them! At the very least I should have been allowed to try.”

“Are you really telling me,” Prowl said, rising dangerously to his feet, “that you’ve been slowly and deliberately pulling my life down around me for over a year now because I wouldn’t let you get yourself killed?”

“Because you refused to see the potential in mnemosurgery.” He held up the hand not holding Jazz’s knife, extending the wickedly sharp trademark needles from his fingertips. “Just because I would have accomplished the missions differently than you envisioned doesn’t mean I couldn’t have done them. I could have done them! And we would have been the most effective agency this side of Cybertron. But no; no, you weren’t interested in taking risks or innovating, you just wanted to stick to what had always worked before, so you shunted me aside for  _ him!” _

“Me?”

“Oh, Meister always got the best missions. Nevermind that we had been partners as rookies and he’d never even met you in person,” Tumbler said, rounding on Jazz with a slight wobble. “I was going to forgive that, at first. After all, you have an impressive career behind you. But then you went and made him your conjunx on top of it all.”

“Okay, first of all? He asked me,” Jazz said, fingers tightening on the second knife. “And second, even if was all a deliberate scheme to ingratiate myself with my boss — which it  _ wasn’t  _ — so what? Our personal lives are none of your business.”

“Except that once he had you, he stopped caring about anyone else! What little he’d ever cared about anyone, anyway.” 

“So I’m selfish and deserve to be punished by destroying the only thing I care about by my own hand? Is that it?” Prowl sighed, bored and pitying. “That’s almost clever, in a pathetic sort of way.”

“You’re only able to say that because he’s not dead right now,” Tumbler threw in his face. “If you’d actually killed him yesterday you’d be an absolute wreck right now, and don’t even try to pretend otherwise.”

“Why would I pretend otherwise? It’s not pathetic because it wouldn’t have worked.” Tumbler couldn’t see Prowl slowly raising the gun. “It’s pathetic because it  _ didn’t  _ work.”

_ Ffft! _

The shot went off with hardly any noise. Tumbler jerked backward, first in recognition at the sound of the silencer, then in recoil as the round penetrated his spark chamber. Jazz watched impassively along with Prowl as he collapsed to the floor, unceremoniously dead.

“Guess that answers a few questions,” he said after a moment. “Though it raises almost as many for me.”

“What he said was true. We trained together a long time ago, though even then we had differing opinions on certain subjects. Mnemosurgery, in particular.” Prowl laid the gun down on his desk and sat carefully, over controlled, bringing his hand up to the back of his neck. “Your visor has a blacklight setting, yes?”

“Yes.” Feeling equal measures angry and sick, Jazz adjusted his visor and came around behind Prowl. He hissed at the number of scars that lit up under the ultraviolet rays, quickly reverting to normal vision so he didn’t have to look at them. “Maybe you should find a therapist for more than marriage counselling.”

“I will process what happened, and I will move on.” He sounded like he was talking to himself more than to Jazz. “I will be fine.”

“But you don’t have to be fine alone.” Jazz took his hand, smoothing away the minute tremors. “I’m here. It’s okay to lean on me.”

“I will.” And, in a very physical sense, Prowl went ahead and leaned on Jazz right there and then. Jazz immediately pulled him into a hug. “I am not used to being so affected by a kill.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not usually so personal.” Or the capstone on a year of systematic torture and violation culminating in the destruction of their house and the near death of his conjunx. If Prowl was able to take that completely in stride, then Jazz would worry. “This mess was a year in the making. It won’t be cleaned up in a day.”

“I… suppose not,” Prowl said, relaxing into Jazz’s arms. “The only thing that has to be cleaned up today is this room.”

“Don’t worry.” Jazz kissed the top of Prowl’s helm, projecting  _ comfort  _ and  _ confidence.  _ “I’ll take care of it.”

.

.

.

“Jazz! It’s good to see you again,” Rung said when the door opened, revealing that Prowl had come with his conjunx this time. Their last several sessions had been one on one, focused on helping Prowl with his feelings after discovering his friend had assaulted him. Betrayal, violation, grief, insecurity, anxiety; all of them were perfectly natural, even healthy responses to such a traumatic event, but many mechs found them easier to process in an environment where they didn’t feel judged for having them. “Does this mean you’re comfortable having him here for this session, Prowl?”

“I am,” Prowl said, and unlike their last couples session so long ago, this time they went over to the couch to sit side by side, rather than in separate chairs. “I want him to be here.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Prowl did look relaxed with Jazz right next to him, his body language indicating improvement both in his mental state as an individual and their relationship as a couple. Rung was happy for them that they seemed to be coming together in the face of adversity rather than letting it complete the break between them. “Is there anything you’d like to focus on specifically today, or do you just want to see where our conversation takes us?”

“The latter, I think,” Prowl said slowly. “But first, we wanted to say thank you.”

“A really big thank you,” Jazz added. “We weren’t sure at first if this was something we could bring to you, but you’ve helped Prowl a lot. Helped us a lot. So, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. I’d like to continue to help, as long as you let me,” Rung said. “I’ll admit that I had my concerns when I first met you. There’s only so much I can do on my own. These sessions are only as useful as you’re willing to make them.”

“We were willing! At least, we thought we were.” They shared a look, and it warmed Rung’s spark to see the open,  _ honest  _ affection in their gaze. “But after how close we came to losing everything… Yeah. I don’t want that to happen again. Ever.”

“Neither do I. But so much has changed that it almost feels like we’re trying to build an entirely new relationship, and neither of us are on solid footing after the old one fell apart yet. How do we move forward in a way that won’t weaken us in the future?”

“By communicating, exactly like this,” Rung said, smiling at them both. “And by taking things one step at a time. So: do either of you have an aspect of your relationship you’d like to talk about first?”

“We’re redoing the house.” 

“Oh?” There must have been an inside joke there somewhere, because Prowl smirked as he said it and Jazz collapsed against him in a fit of giggles. “Is that a source of stress, or a source of joy?”

“It was necessary,” was all Prowl had to say on the matter, which only increased Jazz’s giggles. “Parts of it have been stressful, but in a way it feels like reclaiming something we’d lost.”

“That,” Jazz said, pulling himself back together. “It’s nice to make it feel like  _ ours  _ again.”

Rung nodded. “And what sorts of things have you been doing to make it feel like a space for the two of you?”

“Remember when you asked us in the beginning what we do together when we’re not both at work?” Jazz grinned. “Ask us about interfacing again.” 

“Jazz,” Prowl admonished, but Jazz remained completely uncowed. He pulled his fingers free of Prowl’s and held both hands up, fingers spread proudly.

“Ten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, as they say, is that ;)
> 
> Thank you everyone for coming along with me for AUgust and making this month an absolute blast! <3


End file.
